


Come right back

by lawlipoppie



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Casual Sex, Childhood Friends, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-15 22:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 80,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17537705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawlipoppie/pseuds/lawlipoppie
Summary: Eleven months later, Chanyeol goes to the airport.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write this for a long time. Many of my fics actually took this route, but I never managed to see it through, and I have only my weak heart to blame for it. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this. Or at least find a joy it in.

 

 

 

 

Chanyeol is in Soho. The last he’d checked, he was a blue dot on the map, in Soho. His phone is now in his pocket, along with his hand.

It’s raining lazily, a powdery mist, bitter sugar gathering at the top of his head. His bangs are thawing down from their coif. A second later, the drizzle gets heavier, and he quickens his pace, feet slipping slightly on the cubic stone of the walkway.

He looks up, facing the falling drops. The periwinkle of the eventide is deep, the universe beyond coming alive, frothy sky punctured by twinkles. It’s the same everywhere. Or not. Maybe there are more skies. Maybe they are proportional to something – the sins of the people under. It’s not. Most certainly, it’s not, but it’s nice to think about it like that.

Chanyeol looks back down. He’s been walking for so long, he might not be in Soho anymore. He might not be anywhere now.

Beside him, Jongin is burying his nose into the tall collar of his jacket, smiley eyes under his bangs – he loves rain - feet fast beside Chanyeol.

Chanyeol takes his hand, sheltering his cold fingertips in the centre of his palm.

“Break up with me.”

Jongin squeezes back, and doesn’t break up with him.

 

 

 

 

There are many stories in Chanyeol’s life. But this story began a year ago, today.

This beginning was a prologue.

This beginning was Jongin grabbing his hand.

On the far margin of winter, Jongin had bought himself a new scarf, on discount given they were just going out of season. He was wearing it for the first time, a pattern of little carrots and donuts on distressed cotton. Chanyeol thought it was weird. Carrots and donuts. A vice along with its atonement. Chanyeol just wanted to bring it higher over his nose, for it was still so cold, and it was getting red. A red nose is cute, but not desirable.

When he made to reach for it, Jongin grabbed his hand. He was wearing Chanyeol’s gloves, _their_ gloves, leather, bought many years ago, softened with use.

Jongin turned to him and held his gaze just as tight as he held his hand.  

“I think I love you a little less.”

Chanyeol had nothing to ask. Chanyeol only had an answer to a question he never thought of. Chanyeol only held his hand back, squeezing a little tighter so the warmth didn’t escape.

From that moment on, it came crashing down.

 

 

 

 

He’s with Jongin at a museum. He likes art. They both do. They’re in one of the biggest museums in the world. And yet they’re only looking at each other. Small glances. Corner glances. Not full on. Not full on anymore.

The pamphlets in their hands. A mismatch of whispered languages around them. Marble and footsteps. He sees paint, and installations. Photography. And some things that cannot settle in any category.

There is a painting with one yellow cord dancing around, twining to make a hexagon, all on black. Chanyeol can’t tell why, but he stays in front of it, and looks, and looks, stolen. And for a few more. For one completely white canvas, for one hyperrealistic portrait, which seems to show more than the raw eye could see.

Jongin isn’t with him anymore. He’s been stolen too, interred within the art.

They didn’t plan for this. They were not supposed to lose each other. Chanyeol panics, a formication over his skin. He’s here. In here. Somewhere. And yet, it’s as though he’s lost him for good. Forever.

Chanyeol turns around and exits the museum. It’s sunnier today. No more rain. Jongin likes the sun too. The sun makes him smile.

He waits. A mild, breezy anxiety pushing him from one foot to the other. He doesn’t remember a single art piece from what he’s seen inside. He looks far ahead, and close to himself. Groups. Milling. People. Tourists like themselves.

Chanyeol waits. He should call him. He should call, who knows where he is. But does his phone even have battery. No, because he wanted to take a shot of a funny-looking pigeon on the way here, and he had to use Chanyeol’s phone for it.

Is he feeling this too? This alterity, this wobble, this unsettlement? Does he feel incomplete without Chanyeol too?

Of course not. Not anymore.

“Ah!” whines Jongin, hugging him from behind, swiftly twirling into hooking his elbow with Chanyeol. “Such a pity they didn’t let us take pictures inside.,” he bemoans, pulling Chanyeol forward, smile gone beyond his teeth. “What did you like the most?” he asks, putting his other hand over the one he has on Chanyeol’s elbow. He peers at Chanyeol, peppy, effulgent, head tilting, waiting for Chanyeol’s reply.

“I only looked at you,” Chanyeol says, at last. There is no way to make that lighter, or to make it seem more like a lie. Even if he saw things, it wasn’t because he looked at them. It was because Jongin wasn’t there to be looked at anymore.

Jongin deflates, for a millisecond, a slip of instinct. Chanyeol still catches it. Then Jongin surges forward. He pecks Chanyeol’s cheek.

“You were my favourite in the whole museum too.” He giggles. Hard, Burrowing himself into himself, a little ball of shyness. “Now let’s get you pinned back against the wall.”

Chanyeol laughs, and follows Jongin.

It almost feels like nothing’s wrong.

 

 

 

 

Chanyeol had never seen desperation on Jongin before. It was new, and it frightened Chanyeol beyond belief.

And desperation, of that kind, not of ardour, was Jongin pushing himself closer than ever into Chanyeol, melding into him. It was new. And soft

Desperation shouldn’t be soft. Not a weep. Not a hug. Not the way it was.

Not Jongin pushing his face into Chanyeol’s neck, and whispering. “Where is it going where is it going where is it going.”

_Where is it going._

It. The love. Where is it going.

Desperation was Jongin tying himself around Chanyeol, twisting and twirling until he was shut closed, so no more of the love could escape. So Jongin was insulated, airtight, lovetight.

“Where is it going.”

And desperation was then a cant, was a grind up against him, face in his hands, eyes unflattering, unwavering, present, so present, as he says, “Chanyeol, Chanyeol, Chanyeol,” the name of his beloved, over and over, saturated with amore.

And then.

“I don’t want to kiss you.”

_Chanyeol._

“I don’t want to kiss you.” And he kissed Chanyeol. He kissed Chanyeol until he wanted to kiss him again, and again, and never stop. A kiss that turned them both black and blue, and not on the lips.

Now Chanyeol knows what desperation looks like on Jongin. It hasn’t gone away ever since. It’s not intermittent. It has planes, it has oscillations, but it never went away.  

 

 

 

 

Jongin is dancing. Because a drunken Jongin, though rare, so rare, is dancey. Sleepy dancey. With his third glass of wine in hand, he’s moving to the tune deploring through the speaker of his phone. Slow and calculated. Socked feet and carpet and just boxers. Jongin, doddering in his tipsiness, his lips a sparkle, his eyes a twilight. Flirty. He’s flirty, a coquettish pull, dimple out and about. Pretty. Pretty. Chanyeol loves him.

If he kneels, will Jongin stay.

“Are you really not going to get up and join me?” he inquires, an eyebrow quirked. He can only quirk the left one. It’s that one brow that seduced Chanyeol when he was naught but a boy.

Chanyeol shakes his head, finishes his flute, and gets up. Jongin opens his arms for him.

So they dance, And it’s as though nothing is happening. As though they aren’t hanging by a string, as though they aren’t falling apart.

Because they cannot fall apart when they’re in each other’s arms.

 

 

 

 

Jongin cried once. For himself. For Chanyeol. For _them_.

Jongin’s crying is silent. It’s just tears. There was no snot, no red nose, no bloodshot eyes. Just tears, crystalline, mesmerizing, tumbling one after the other over the plump of his cheeks, as though having fun going down slides in a waterpark.

He cried in Chanyeol’s lap. Forehead to forehead, as he spoke. “Your voice. You know how much I love it. How it could bring me to my knees.”

_Chanyeol._

_“_ Now it irks me _._ Now I find it too constraining. _Chanyeol_. The beautiful voice of the beautiful you.”

 _Chanyeol_.

“Talk to me. Talk to me. Let me hear you. I despise this so much.”

Chanyeol was numb, but functional. Chanyeol was incapacitated, but could still speak. “We really should take care of the ceiling in the bathroom. The mould has started to spread.”

And so, they talked about that. Jongin broke his own heart, broke Chanyeol’s, broke the both of them, and then they carried on talking about things that they could actually fix. Jongin doesn’t like his voice, and it’s not the only thing.

The silence grew between them. When Chanyeol speaks, when Chanyeol is just here, there, anywhere Jongin is too, he wonders, how much of him Jongin hates now. How unattractive is he to Jongin now. How long until Jongin won’t be able to stand him anymore.

 

 

 

 

They should eat local, but instead they seek food from home, just to see how it’s done here, a milliard leagues away.

Gamjatang. It doesn’t have the perilla seed powder. The restaurant is pretty busy. It’s lunch time. Not the kind where the shoes have to taken off.

And Jongin is happy when he’s eating. He’s looking at someone fondly. Chanyeol doesn’t turn to look. A woman or a man or a boy or some street game or a fucking TV. Jongin looks at that thing the same way he looks at Chanyeol. He has a special gaze. One just for him. At some point.

It’s gone.

Chanyeol picks at his broth with the tongs. Then he picks at Jongin’s – he’s clumsier with things like these. And they eat. In silence. For today, it’s silence. And eating. And very little pretending.

 

 

 

 

Half a year into it, Chanyeol said it for the first time.

“Break up with me.”

It stung, like the words had been injected into his tongue, into his mouth, salt and acid and alcohol over it, forcefully put in there, broken his trachea and mandible. A comprehensive ache, facial, skeletal, and psychical. But he said it.

Jongin jumped, a distinguished spasm, and said. “I’ll fix it.” A shake of his head. “I’ll fix me.”

“Jongin,” Chanyeol said, because he loved that too. His name. A liniment to his throes. He almost smiled, only at how dulcet it was to his ears. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“How not?” Jongin asked. And he asked the empty space between them. Not himself. Not Chanyeol. But a third party, the provenance of this, the defendant.

“Something is wrong. And it can’t be with you. You didn’t do anything. Why is this happening, when you didn’t do anything?” Hands on Chanyeol’s nape, caressing so hard he will peel the skin off. “I feel so loved. You love me so much. And yet you’re the one getting hurt the most.” Kiss to Chanyeol’s forehead. A couple of them, dying one after the other. “How is it not wrong? Something is off. I’ll fix it. I’ll fix _me_.”

And Jongin, to this day, is trying. He has been trying for a long time. Until one day, he will give in, and admit defeat.

 

 

 

 

“Make love to me,” Jongin asks tonight, because he always defined it, when he wanted something, when they did something. Jongin always called it by what it was, what it meant to him.

Chanyeol has his hands on his waist, and then his ass.

But it’s phony now. “I think it’s just sex.”

“Make love to me,” Jongin stresses, grasping at his shoulders. “I want you.”

They’ve made love in Seoul, in Busan, in Incheon, at the airport, after teasing each other all though the plane ride from Jeju, in Jeju too. But London could been a break from all of this – all this meaningless sex. But Chanyeol tries to fend Jongin off, but what power does he have when Jongin is pleading with him like this. When he says that they should make love in London too.

So he cedes. He succumbs to Jongin. He always does. He waits for Jongin to kiss him, and replies to it, delving deep, deeper, until darkness runs clear. He pulls at his pants, at his lips, at him, just to come closer. Jongin has his face in his hands, always, always, when he’s giving himself wholly into his kiss.

When Chanyeol kneels, he barely goes down. Bones too long protesting against the humility he feels. He cowers, shoulders pulled in, spine tight, lowering, lowering.

He kneels to suck Jongin off. But he kneels for more than that.

They reach the bed. They’re hard and they hump and they tug some more, as to shred each other into little pieces, skin scaled as it chafes. They’re strong, Chanyeol is, Jongin is, it makes intercourse violent rather than kind, while selfless. When Jongin sinks teeth into his shoulder, it’s for Chanyeol, for being inked by Jongin’s desire is gratifying to Chanyeol. When Chanyeol drives in hard, swivels, unkindly, brusquely, it isn’t because of his own impatience, but because Jongin likes this kind of breaching, this kind of connoted insolence, as though Chanyeol couldn’t wait to take his time, to be careful, was that manic, was that ruttish.

The constituent sensations are there. This is love that they’re making. It’s being made more. It’s being produced. This is what they’re making. This brutal slapping, the serrating mewls, the scrapes, the _more more more,_ harder, harder, please. This chase. Jongin narrating through it all, a third person, the person who learned to make love alongside Chanyeol – communication, _tell me what you like, tell me what you want, tell me what to do, I’ll do it, I’ll give it to you_. This haste and tension and fervidity. This clamour, proximity, wetness and sliminess and slickness.

This is all love.

Chanyeol comes. His cock comes. It’s just there, the postscript of a kiss left to wither in Jongin’s mouth, tongue over his moan as he comes too.

Chanyeol turns and breathes in the scent of his hair. The same one he’s had forever. And Jongin clings onto him. Their obsolescent love squeezed in between, suffocating.

 

 

 

 

In the meantime, Chanyeol turned ugly. Turned into a victim at the hands of a bacterium. Fallen into a systemic shattering.

Paranoia.

Chanyeol catching himself looking intently when Jongin types in his password. He squints. He gets close. Just to see his password. What for. What does he need Jongin’s passwords for. To see what.

When Jongin came home happy, when the desperation was bigger, when he was in Chanyeol’s lap again, echoing his liturgy of panic, of _where is it going, where is it going_ , when he clawed, when he was finding happiness anywhere else but in Chanyeol.

It was ridiculous. Inanities. Chanyeol, in his mind, starting to tie things that wouldn’t tie. Jongin seeing a puppy and being happy about it. While he can’t bring a puppy into the house whilst living with Chanyeol because of his allergies. Someone else could do it. A change in the way he dresses. Who is it for. The way he talks, extra flirty, maybe, maybe it’s like this with everyone.

It chewed Chanyeol. Paranoia is insanity. Paranoia is a fear like no other.

And it broke out. It tore right through him, and as he entered, saw Jongin at his laptop, pyjamas, spectacles, damp hair, his small cup of warm milk, smiling. Smiling. Chanyeol doesn’t even wanna know what he’s looking at.

And before Jongin even gets to notice that he’s here, Chanyeol asks him. “Are you seeing…someone? Are you…” He swallows. He swallows it all. He swallows himself, or he’s swallowed by the monster within. “Is it because you’re cheating on me?” Triumph, at last. The bitterest triumph of them all, astringent.

Cheating – synonyms: deceit, betrayal, lying, trickery. Chanyeol thinks it’s nothing like this. To him Jongin cheating wouldn’t feel like treachery.

It would just hurt. Pure pain, with no substratum, no feathering interpretations. Just hurt. And Chanyeol just isn’t quite ready for that. He only fears that pain.

It’s easier to fear one thing than the million he would, had he thought about it. Just pain, for now.

“Nyeollie-ah,” Jongin says, mouth agape, lips a bit cracked. _Nyeollie-ah_. Nyeollie. And Ah. Chanyeol’s name is Chanyeol. Could be Yeol. Could be Chan. Could be Yeollie. But Nyeollie. Nyeollie. That’s not how the syllables go. Nyeollie-ah. Only Jongin calls him that. It was the very first flirtatious construct that cemented between them, nine summers ago, when Jongin couldn’t stop calling him that after Chanyeol told him it makes him feel like a baby.

_But you are kind of a baby._

And Chanyeol kind of liked being his baby.

And so it stayed. And so it’s used only when the calling comes from a place of such tenderness and love that Jongin cannot modulate himself otherwise.

And it is. In Jongin’s eyes. There is frenzy, a marbling of hues that almost push him into hysteria. And he says once more. “Nyeollie-ah.”

And Chanyeol realized, this isn’t the alarm of a man being caught cheating, being accused of cheating, and it being true.

It’s just sadness. A sadness strong enough to shove him into hyperexcitability, to save Chanyeol from this. As though Chanyeol is injured, bleeding out, needing immediate, compulsory attention.

Getting up, getting in front of Chanyeol. Chair screeching – which he never does, he doesn’t want to ruin the floor, because that’s just Jongin, never wanting to harm anything – the cup of milk on the table spilling – it only had a few mouthfuls left in it.

And then he’s there, on his tip toes, even though he reaches anyway, and kissing him. Jongin thinks everything can be made better with kisses. The ultimate band aid. The cause and the antibiotic, the antiseptic. All of it, all that one would ever need to mend themselves, glue anything back to the self, it would be a kiss from a loved one.

And that works, because Chanyeol loves Jongin, madly, exhaustively, and the way Jongin kisses him is soft, so soft as if to prove he isn’t more than his love for Chanyeol either.

He pulls back, arms around his neck. “I’d never be unfaithful to you. Ever.”

Chanyeol believes him. Because Chanyeol never suspected him in the first place. Because that was all Chanyeol’s insecurity.

And it’s Chanyeol’s insecurity that he has to kill, not Chanyeol’s doubts about him.

This is all about Chanyeol here.

“I know,” Chanyeol says.

Jongin shakes his head. “Look everywhere, if that brings you peace,” he whispers, so readily offering Chanyeol his privacy to be abused. “I’ll give you all my passwords – mostly they’re your name, if you didn’t know – a smile, biting in the door of this all like a weed breaking through the thick of concrete- unwelcome, misplaced, but a joy – “Chanyeol, if you need to look.”

“I don’t need to look,” Chanyeol denies. “I don’t need to— I trust you. I trust you.”

“I know,” Jongin says. “But you don’t trust yourself. Because of me.”

“I trust you,” Chanyeol repeats.

“You know I’d never disrespect you like that.”

“I know. I trust you.” Chanyeol’s chin touches his chest. He’s sinking into the ground. “I trust you. I trust you, _but_ —” His feet are gone, under the parquet now. His vision, his perception is distorted.

“But?”

“You’re looking at other people, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“How not?”

“I’m not looking for anyone.”

It makes no sense to Chanyeol. If Jongin isn’t into him anymore, this makes him available, impressionable, free. Almost. And then it also sounds reasonable – at least if Jongin has his eyes on someone else, it makes sense that he likes Chanyeol less. And he would prefer a reason, this reason, cheating _, Jongin is cheating_ , over it happening…just because. Over it being just senectitude, drying out until it’s microdust into the wind. Jongin cheating is _better_.

But that’s not it.

“I know,” he says. He burrows his face into Jongin’s neck. It doesn’t smell like him, it smells of artificial flavours. Cleanness. “I trust you.”

“Look everywhere,” Jongin says into his ear. “Right now, really, look. I’ll show you everything.”

Chanyeol shakes his head. He doesn’t want to see how it’s _not_ even that. “I believe you.”

“But believing me is not enough now, is it? Look.”

And Jongin sat him down, brought his laptop and his phone, and showed Chanyeol everything. All his conversations, all his pictures, emails, browser history, where he’s been, where he’s eaten, with _whom_. All the people that he knows, with pictures and relationship status, plus some little trivia.

And it’s needless. Utterly needless, because all it does it convince Chanyeol more and more that there’s no rescue to them.

 

 

 

 

Jongin looks good in autumn. And in spring. And in summer. And in winter. And in the seasons to come, in the years to come, when he won’t be by Chanyeol’s side anymore. When someone else will see him cuddly in autumn, and in winter, and flirty in spring, and loose, relaxed in summer, one with the breeze. He will look good. Jongin always looks good, no matter if the eyes looking love him or not.

He loves autumn Jongin the most. That’s two seasons away.

Right now, he has Jongin in spring. Not that different. Still sweaters and a jacket, but lighter. Jeans, instead of linen pants. A bit of layering, coated in a multichromatic fabric, heart cosy in its nest of wool.

He’s pulling out Chanyeol’s clothes. Jongin’s. Chanyeol’s. The ownership of their wardrobe is briefly determined by who bought it. But they buy for each other. When Jongin gets a jacket, it’s Chanyeol’s too. When Chanyeol gets a new shirt, it’s as much for Jongin as it is for himself.

Their mingling about this always touched him. Being in the constant enamoured state of _I’m wearing your clothes_. An ownership on each other that is quotidian.

Jongin picks from their suitcase his clothes for today. He picks Chanyeol’s too. “Do you feel like blue?” he asks over his shoulder, hands in the venters of the valise, hunting for a pair of _damned_ socks.

“Do _you_ feel like blue?” Chanyeol asks from the bed. He’s naked atop the sheets, stretching out, his morning airplane-ing, to make all his joints pop. Fireworks for the arthritic.

Jongin gets up, looks over him appreciatively. “I feel like skin too.”

“We’d rather not be accused of public indecency in a foreign place?” Chanyeol inquires through the portal of his yawn. It ends up gibberish, but he doesn’t repeat it.

Jongin laughs, and throws him the blue turtleneck and his black pants – the ones he wore yesterday. It didn’t rain, so they don’t have the splatters at the calves.

“I’m so hungry,” Jongin says, topping the mound of clothes with some underwear too, “Let’s go eat.”

Chanyeol thinks he won’t get to see Jongin looking good this autumn

 

 

 

 

“What did I do?” Chanyeol asked. He doesn’t remember when. This sort of question didn’t need a context, foreground, background, time and place. It has been everpresent, everlasting, evermaddening, ever—

Because he must have fault in this. So many faults.

The nature of this denaturation deems reasonless, it seems biological, the senescence of amore is as unavoidable as the senescence of everything else.

But it’s premature. Chanyeol feels like they _barely_ just loved. To him, it’s not even past midlife, even if they gave themselves to each other years ago.

So there must be something to it, a trigger, then an accelerator, and now they’re in the midst of it oxidising, going brown and purulent around the edges.

Chanyeol did something. Or it’s the opposite – Chanyeol stopped doing something. Maybe many things. Maybe he’s half of what Jongin fell in love with, the other half an imposter.

“What do you like now, if it’s not me?” he kept on. The wind was blowing, or it was sunny, calm, they were outdoors, indoors, on a terrace, lemonade glasses, or wine, at midnight, bodies entangled on the couch, work clothes on.

“I’ll be that person. I’ll be someone new, if you want someone new.”

Jongin’s hair was ruffled. So long, that it’s always ruffled no matter how much he tries to tame it. Or ruffled because it was late. Because it was early, and he didn’t care for it. Because he spent a while just rubbing it on Chanyeol’s chest, giggling, asking to be tickled.

“What do you like now?” Chanyeol asked again, because Jongin wasn’t answering, and Chanyeol needed to do something. Maybe they could just cut this bad part off – and they’d still survive – good apples, with a worm hole. Just cut the passage of the worm and the worm away. It’s salvageable. It’s _still_ salvageable. “I can change,” he said, quieter, mouth dry, or drunk, or dead.

Jongin smiled. His lips stretching and twisting, deforming until they didn’t look like lips anymore. Something unsightly, unhuman – ground meat.

He took a sip of his lemonade, downed the wineglass, pulled at the lapel of his blazer, tugged at his button shirt, ran his hand through gelled bed hair.

“I don’t know.”

 

 

 

 

They’re kissing in a tight alley. Just because. Jongin pulled him in, as they were running to catch a bus, missed it, and kept running a bit more, until they wound up in an alley, gasping, smiling, and met in a kiss.

Jongin is wearing his denim jacket, the one with the bear on his pocket. Chanyeol runs his hand over it, to give it a little pat, as it is customary, for Jongin insists all the bears he wears need affection. It travels higher, to palm Jongin’s nape and bring him closer.

And they kiss. Without reason. Without desire.

These kisses were once efflorescent, were kindling, were voracious. They are now fetid, are inattentive, desperate and parched. The modus of it is the same, the choreography of the movement, the meld, in its technicality, nothing changed, but in its sentiment, it’s cadaverous. The rigor of gorgeous, tumid, cerise lips, when it’s naught but collisions, an infringement of one mouth onto the other, an accepted violation.

They were already out of breath, but now even more so, going a little heady, a little purple. Jongin’s hand is on Chanyeol’s waist, fingers on his ribcage. He grins up at Chanyeol – well kissed, too well kissed, way too well kissed, giddy, tired, high and low.

“Let’s go back and catch the other bus,” Chanyeol says.

“Would hate it if we miss our reservation,” Jongin bemoans. The hand drops from his waist. He turns with his back to Chanyeol, starts walking away.

Then he turns around, scoffs fondly, grabs Chanyeol by the wrist, and tugs him forward.

Jongin, truly, doesn’t love him anymore.

 

 

 

 

The first time this crushed him was one afternoon.

It wasn’t quite real until then. It was there, but not as explicit. It was there, in theory, but not in practice.

Chanyeol cried. He didn’t thus far. Because it wasn’t quite real. Words don’t amount to that much.

Like all the other afternoons. Jongin was washing the dishes after they’d lunched. Chanyeol was still cleaning around, putting the rest of the utensils in the sink.

When he was done, he stayed by Jongin’s side.

And touched his hip. A light palming – he likes reminders that he’s not alone, small and constant.

Jongin flinched.

It wasn’t surprise. It was dislike. It was _repulsion_.

Chanyeol collapsed into himself. He was crying – a side effect, insignificant, to the deluge of ache developing inside his chest. It was a new kind of pain that hurt so much it nearly didn’t even hurt. Couldn’t be categorized, couldn’t be caught. It spread, until it ran of Chanyeol.

And Jongin gasping, turning around. Hugging. Always. Always hugging. So tight, looking to sieve himself through Chanyeol’s bones. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Ever since, Chanyeol hasn’t touched Jongin without Jongin touching him first.

 

 

 

 

They have sex daily. They must have sex daily.

It wasn’t like this. Before last spring, it was coincident, spontaneous, divine. Boldness and shyness. Little whines. Laughter. Some farts. Too many kisses. Foreplay for days. Experiments, failure and success. Routine, comfort. The occasional pulled muscle. Getting kneed in the face. Cries of oversensitivity. Begs, pleas, demands, orders. Switching mid-penetration.

It wasn’t because they had to. But because they wanted to. Because the sexual aspect was an extension of their cherishment.

Now they must. It’s all they have left. They can’t be breaking apart when they’re inside each other. There is no disconnect when they’re touching everywhere.

They started having sex weekly. It was awkward – done with different bodies, but the same people. Then the same people, and different bodies. Awkward, but necessary.

After Jongin cried, it was twice a week.

After Chanyeol cried, it was every other day.

Now it’s daily. The day before yesterday, yesterday, today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the day after that. There is no certainty.

Jongin’s hands are already underneath his shirt. So they might be taking their clothes off this time – that too, is rare now. Sex doesn’t require nudity, and they don’t require nudity.

Jongin pushes him onto the bed, climbing into his lap. Chanyeol cups his face with both hands. He’s gorgeous. In low light, halogen, sun, moon, white, yellow, in all the lights. He’s gorgeous.

“You’re forcing yourself,” Chanyeol whispers, barring Jongin from leaning down to kiss him.

It’s not about now. It’s about ever since _I think I love you a little less._

It’s a distinction that has to be emphasized – to Chanyeol, sex is no chore. No matter how bleak, how insipid the act itself is, he adores any kind of intimacy he has with Jongin. Because he loves him – not _a little less_ – but a lot. A whole fucking lot.

But to Jongin— He doesn’t have to. He doesn’t even have to be here. He doesn’t even have to be Chanyeol’s boyfriend.

Jongin shakes his head. His hair is damp, stringy, droopy. It gets into his eyes. Chanyeol brushes it away. “And you’re tired. And you miss me. And you want me.”

This is not about now either.

And he’s right. He’s _so_ right.

When Jongin leans down to kiss him, Chanyeol responds, guides him in.

When they’re naked, when they’re joined, when it feels good, Chanyeol can’t stop from imploring again. “Break up with me,” he says. Jongin moans into it, sweeps it away as though it was never there. “Please.” He kisses under Jongin’s ear. He doesn’t like being kissed there. “Please.” Jongin turns his head, allowing Chanyeol to kiss some more. “Please break up with me.”

It’s getting weaker instead of stronger. A few months ago, he could beg for it at the top of his lungs. But he can’t anymore. It’s the senility. The stress. The devastation. He barely has any voice left to properly ask for it. “Break up with me,” Chanyeol whispers. It’s chewed up into Jongin’s kiss, tongue rubbing over it, smashing it into nothing. He’s not even hearing Chanyeol. He’s grinding down, hips agitated, moaning, too loud, way too loud. He’s not enjoying this. It might feel good, but there is no enjoyment. Just mutual victimization.

Chanyeol thrusts in faster, deeper. Arrhythmic. “Break up with me,” he whispers into Jongin’s hair. And Jongin only moves closer. Closer into his chest. He sighs there. A year ago, this gesture meant a kiss, a nuzzle. Not a sigh, not the rubble of denial.

It doesn’t matter whose chest it is. It doesn’t matter whose cock it is. It doesn’t matter. This is the automation of eros. Unsubstantial, he hears, phony, hollow, horrible. “Break up with me,” Chanyeol says. Moaning, driving in. It feels so good, it feels wrong, erroneous. Like it should singe, it should disembody him. But it feels good, to his skin, into the claws of Jongin’s selflessness, it feels good.

“No.” Jongin shakes his head, crosses his feet around Chanyeol’s ass, and pulls him forward.

“Push me away.”

“No.”

The fact that each word, each smile, each touch of Jongin’s is first candied with remorse, crystalized with his guilt, and served up as a delicacy. Because Jongin chooses to leave him with rotten teeth over a rotten heart, even if at last he will disease Chanyeol whole.

They come. At least. They should’ve stopped so many times, choked themselves out so many times, went soft, the discomfort was too much, the arousal wasn’t there to begin with.

But they kept at it. Because as long as they came, it seemed like they could give each other something. Could take something from each other.

Chanyeol wipes his semen off Jongin’s stomach with a tissue. He’s panting. It wasn’t bad. None of their fucks are. But they’re not good either. Maybe this one was just a bit better.

“Oh god, my legs are trembling,” says Jongin, making to get up. They should shower.

Chanyeol offers his arm. Jongin leans on him, waddles to the bathroom. His legs didn’t tremble yesterday. Or the day before that. Or the month.

 

 

 

 

“We’re supposed to stay for three weeks,” Jongin says, breath coffee-scented. Sweet, not bitter. He puts the cup on the saucer between them. Chanyeol takes a sip too. It’s bitter.

“I’ll come back as soon as possible. We haven’t gone anywhere in so long. I’ll be back to finish our stay.”

They came here for them. To save themselves. They cannot save themselves if they’re apart. If they have half a world between them.

But what if they can’t save themselves anyway.

Chanyeol picks the teaspoon off the saucer and gathers the little cloud of whipped cream off the top. He feeds it to Jongin. It was the last cloud. Chanyeol didn’t have any for himself.

“You want to come too?” he asks, a bit of cloud stuck to his lip. He licks it off. “I know you hate plane rides, but you hate being alone too.”

No. Chanyeol doesn’t hate being alone. Chanyeol hates being without Jongin.

And he doesn’t hate plane rides nearly as much as he hates being apart from him.

Yet, he doesn’t want to go back yet. He doesn’t want them to be home, enter through the door, enter the same impasse they left from. When they haven’t solved anything. They’re supposed to stay until they’re okay. Until Jongin loves him again.

But Jongin has just been called into work, for an _emergency_ – they lost the suspect for his case, and nothing can move without his presence. Which are a few words and signatures. But he _must_ be there in person.

“I’ll stay,” Chanyeol says. Jongin is skimming off the top of the coffee. There are no clouds, just their tears left behind. Jongin opens his mouth, to urge Chanyeol to open his, and delivers him the coffee. Sweet. Bitter. Sweet. Jongin smiles, pats his lips with a finger – _good boy_ – and dunks the spoon back into the cup. “I’ll try not to go anywhere fun without you.”

Jongin shakes his head. “And stay here bored in the hotel room? Go wherever. Just take some pictures for me. Or if you find a nice place to take me too when I return.”

That doesn’t sound so bad. But he doubts he will. Yet, he nods, and holds the cup for Jongin to finish the coffee. A bit dribbles down the side of his mouth that he immediately demands Chanyeol to lick off.

 

 

 

 

The next morning, Chanyeol is dressing to go with him to the airport.

“You don’t have to,” Jongin says, toothbrush in his mouth, lips foamy. “You can just sleep in?”

Chanyeol is still sluggish. He hasn’t gotten used to the time difference. It doesn’t matter. He can catch up on sleep later.

Jongin always spoke like this. You don’t need to. You don’t have to come with me, be with me. I’m fine by myself. It’s fine. Whenever he thought it would be a mild inconvenience to Chanyeol, he would just assure him over and over, that it’s _fine_. Of course Chanyeol persisted – and he persists now too – for there is rarely, if ever, something he would prefer to Jongin’s company.

It’s out of the kindest heart, but now he almost reads it like Jongin doesn’t want him there. As though Jongin wants to break away. Have the little trip to the airport all too himself.

And it hurts. This hurts. Because it might very well be true. Because everything is one sided now.

“You don’t want me to come?” he asks, hands dropping from where he was buttoning his shirt. He’s only done two. It will take two seconds to undo them and not go anymore.

“I want you to come,” Jongin replies, not missing a beat. He never misses any beat when it comes to this kind of reassurance. Because he cannot lie. Because it’s reflex. Which makes it believable.

He rinses his mouth a couple of times. He doesn’t like the aftertaste of toothpaste. “You’re coming.”

Chanyeol keeps doing the buttons.

 

 

 

 

The journey to the airport is eerie. Like it is not really happening. It shouldn’t happen.

Jongin is on his phone, scrolling through pictures of his nephew and niece that his sister just sent. He’s giggly. He loves them. Uncle Jongin is different from Jongin Jongin. Imbrued with an elation so pure, so elemental that he becomes uncharacteristic, demeanour but a fuzzball.

Chanyeol slides down the subway chair and leans his head on Jongin’s shoulder. Jongin accepts it, accommodates him, hushing his voice, as he speaks. Raeon already ruined his new hat – the one Jongin got him not even a month ago. It’s covered in drawings of what looks like wax pencil.

“What if it’s not ruined, but improved instead?” Chanyeol asks.

Jongin twitters, low. “It does look pretty good. I’d wear that.” Jongin, wearing a hat with a sprout at the top of it, the brim of it covered with unidentifiable scrawls. A few of them look like poop emojis. Or that’s just Chanyeol’s mind.

The next image is of Rahee, wearing the same hat. But scrawl-free. It goes well with her dress, dotted with little flowers.

“I almost prefer it with the poop now,” Jongin says, turning towards him, breath a whisper over Chanyeol’s forehead. So it’s not just in his head. It is poop. Kids.

“Make a deal to buy it from him,” Chanyeol suggests.

“I’ll arrange a business meeting.”

Chanyeol snorts. It almost doesn’t feel like they’re going where they’re going. But it does, once the stop is announced. The final stop. Heathrow. They’ve been on the way for almost an hour.

When he sees Jongin off at the terminal, he gets jittery. He has never seen Jongin off before. It’s not that they haven’t been apart, they have, weeks at a time, for business trips, family issues. But these never needed any of this. Because even if they were apart, he never felt it.

He doesn’t know what to say. Maybe he doesn’t have to say anything at all. He can just board the next plane, follow Jongin right back without any belongings. Or Jongin could wait with him and take the next one, so they could go together.

There is really no need for any of this.

Jongin pouts at him, good natured. Fond, maybe. He hugs Chanyeol. He’s strong. He’s always been strong. His hugs are comfortable, a comfort that is intrinsic, wholesome, that brings Chanyeol such peace. It’s mollifying. But it’s also hard. He brings Chanyeol as into him as he can. So Chanyeol feels the embrace long after it’s ended.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” Jongin says, nosing into his neck.

“Hard to believe.” Chanyeol wanted to go away with it, but he couldn’t. Now that he is to step away in a few minutes.

“Find nice places for us. We planned so very little. I want to see more of this city.”

Chanyeol cannot refuse him. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Jongin parrots, stretching out his hand for a pinky promise. As he does with Raeon and Rahee, and with Chanyeol, when he’s being difficult. But _cutely difficult_.

Jongin hugs him again. His clothes are thin. He only has a small shoulder bag with him. In there is his phone, his charger, his wallet, his lip balm. This is all. He can’t be away for long with only so little on him.

He kisses Chanyeol, on each cheek, on the mouth, on the forehead, and then once more on the mouth.

Then Jongin leaves.

 

 

 

 

It’s an addictive tedium. Just complying to a prognosis that cannot end anyway but catastrophically. Chanyeol wonders how that will be like, when it will come. Will it be quiet. Will it be loud. Will it be painful. Will it be relieving. Will they part with one last kiss, or a pair of thrown punches. Will they part with no ill feelings, or with a resentment so deep they can no longer lie eye on each other.

Chanyeol tells himself that regardless, he should prepare for this all. For it to be loud and quiet and angry and calm and emotional and vacant. He should just prepare. Just brace.

Somehow. Somehow. He doesn’t know how. But somehow.

He gets off the subway. He looks left to right. His feet don’t want to take him anywhere new. He goes back to the hotel, sleeps. Wakes up, and sleeps again.

 

 

 

 

He can look around, now, if there’s no Jongin. He’s been here for eight days, and he hasn’t seen anything.

They went to bakeries, to restaurants, but Chanyeol only felt Jongin’s scent. They went to galleries, museums, saw buildings and people. Yet Chanyeol only saw Jongin. Not even an eclipsing, but a complete erasure. The two days when they just stayed inside - Chanyeol didn’t know what the inside of their hotel room looks like. Didn’t know what the sheets feel like. He only knows Jongin’s hair.

Without Jongin by his side, he feels free, but he feels lost, almost embarrassed, as walking around on the streets naked – liberty, but the most cornering of shames.

He looks at the clock. He doesn’t have his phone with him – he lost it. He pats his pockets.

No. He forgot it at the hotel. Charging. With the new charger Chanyeol bought after Jongin took theirs with him.

On his wrist. His watch. Jongin’s. Theirs. They got it on some anniversary – maybe the first, maybe the seventh. They had just so many of them.

Chanyeol doesn’t remember when he even put it on. It’s not even set. It displays Korean time. Six in the morning. Nine in the evening. It’s still dark, even as the day is lengthening.

He puts his hand back in his pocket. He walks. It’s almost silent now, at least compared to a few hours ago. The traffic has dwindled. He doesn’t know what day of the week it is. London is busier on weekends. Or not. And it was just his imagination.

He sees a cluster of people smoking in a designated area next to a door.

He enters. It’s a club.

Club means drinking. He could use a drink. For what. What does he need to get drunk for. What sorrows does he have. None. Jongin called him this morning. Jongin, his boyfriend, called him this morning to ask how he’s faring all by himself. Great, he said. I don’t miss you one bit. Jongin laughed. I miss you too.

Which is why he should drink. Maybe that will bring him some sorrows. He feels like he should be mourning. He should be broken into the talons of dolour. Which he is, if he’s being frank with himself. But not enough.

Whiskey, he orders. That word is hard. It’s easy. It’s definitely easier when he says it a third time.

He doesn’t like doing shots. He prefers weak, flavoured alcohol that is more a luxuriation than a means to an end. But all alcohol is alcohol, which is what he needs. Whiskey. Shots. Four.

He’s in a dance club. Which means music. EDM. The usual catchy nonsense. It all sounds the same. Chanyeol’s ears hurt. He’s drunk. His heart isn’t beating anymore. He gives it an encouraging pat. It still doesn’t move. Chanyeol laughs. More whiskey.

Chanyeol gets up from the bar. People are dancing. People who aren’t Jongin. Which is debilitatingly many people. Chanyeol, briefly, imagines a world full only of Jongins. He smiles – that would be niiiice. Maybe among them he would find one to keep loving him. One who will never ever fall out of love with him.

He dives into the crowd. Or not. The crowd is everywhere. He’s the crowd too.

It’s all a slimy fanfaronade. Chanyeol doesn’t belong here, but that’s okay, because he doesn’t belong anywhere. And Jongin. He doesn’t see any Jongin.

But he can dance. Jongin would dance here – they went clubbing a lot. To destress. A few times a year. Get shitfaced beyond words and rut. Love on alcohol is a hell of an aphrodisiac.

There is no Jongin though. Chanyeol is by himself. In a club. Drunk. So he dances. What else is there to do. The music doesn’t cradle him, doesn’t encourage him. His ears still hurt. It stinks – a scent that he finds very western. He dances. Against the music, with the music, against the people, with the people. Whiskey break. Chanyeol is running out of cash. He doesn’t have enough for one more. But he’s had enough, he thinks. The last few shots have yet to kick in.

Chanyeol dancing. By himself. He doesn’t have legs, he doesn’t have arms, he doesn’t have a neck. He’s just a floating torso with a head hovering atop. There is pressure behind his eyes, into the eyeballs themselves. Like they’re about to pop. Popcorn, popeye. It’s funny.

He’s dancing with someone now. Someone who is a lot of legs. And glitter. Manmade, cosmetic smallpox. He should put some cream on that.

Chanyeol smiles at this person. It must be a person.

“Whoa,” he marvels, as the person puts hands on his shoulders and dances with him.

And from here, he blacks out.

 

 

 

 

Beds. Chanyeol slept in so many. This is not something to be proud of. Sheets among sheets, the fine, glamorous materials of loneliness, foams and feathers, a surrogate hug. But Chanyeol can sleep. He always can. Sleep just comes so easily, steals him before his mind gets to wander, and cages it within his own unconsciousness.

He’s in the hotel bed. He’s alone now. He gets up. He checks his phone, teeming with notifications – nothing that matters, nothing from Jongin. He thinks about brushing his teeth. Showering. What for.

He looks out the window. A city. Just a city. No Jongin.

Chanyeol doesn’t want to go anywhere. He gets back into bed. Sleeps.

 

 

 

 

On the fourth day, Chanyeol wakes up, and calls him. “Break up with me.” It’s a good time in Korea now.

Jongin is silent. For a while. He doesn’t hear anything else. He might be home. It’s morning there. He didn’t leave for work yet.

“I hate it when you say that.” His voice is soft, frayed, unfiltered. “And you say it _all_ the time.”

Chanyeol is giving him one more thing to dislike at him. Isn’t that funny. A chip of a laugh makes it past his lips.

“It’s the only thing I can ask of you.” _Since I can’t ask you to keep loving me._ He said this part too, not aloud, but Jongin heard him.

“Is the way I’m handling us this bad?” he asks. Exasperation smudged in little serifs at the peaks of his words. “I’m just trying to—” A sigh. It’s deep. And it’s long. And it’s lacerating. Chanyeol turns on his side. “If what I’m doing really is that bad, if I’m hurting us both more in doing what I’m doing…”

The pause is long. Too long. Chanyeol feels a touch on his ankle, having sunk under the blanket, grabbing, tugging, throwing him into its abysm.

“You do it,” Jongin finishes. “Chanyeol. Break up with me.”

 _Oh god_.

“Do it. Now. Break up with me.”

Chanyeol doesn’t even know what words to use. How he would say that, how he would put that. And they might end up being built of sound, but not of meaning.

“But I love you,” he whispers. “So much.”

He burrows his face into the pillow. His eyes sting. But not just his eyes. A sting behind them too. A sting everywhere, not a needling, but it seems to be just one – a single, fatal piercing. “I love you.” He says again. It’s all that he knows how to say.

“And because you love me, I can’t do it either.”

Chanyeol hangs up.

 

 

 

 

He passes by shops. Cake. Clothes. High fashion. Low fashion. Supermarkets. The one that only has frozen food. Semi-prep heaven. He looks at snacks. A deli. He picks a few samples off a tray. Salty, delicious, he doesn’t buy any. A bookstore. New books, old books, more pages lost than found. A music shop. CD-s, vinyls. Instruments. Guitars, violins. A piano.

He knew once, how to play the piano. In some dream. In some vespertine fairy tale of his tender youth when he wasn’t quite himself yet. He knew that. He remembers it, because doesn’t the hero of every good romance knows how to play the piano.

So is this why Chanyeol isn’t the hero of his romance anymore.

No.

There is no reason for that. Because this is not a cause of reason. It’s a cause of no one.

Chanyeol takes a pic of the piano _. If only you met me earlier, I could’ve played on this for you._

Jongin doesn’t reply.

Chanyeol enters a jewellery store. Broches - things he would never wear but is uncannily attracted to. He buys one, then somehow loses it on the way back to the hotel. Chanyeol showers, sleeps. Jongin.

 

 

 

 

Today, Jongin should’ve boarded the plane to come to London.

He didn’t.

His ticket is for three days from now on. He delayed it because the issue at work wasn’t solved yet.

Chanyeol leans his forehead against the window. It’s cold. It pampers his fever.

Jongin is still on the phone with him, after apologizing profusely for the delay.

“Why are you clinging?” Chanyeol inquires, hearing how regretful Jongin is for those three days. As if they even mean anything. Shouldn’t Jongin _enjoy_ being away from him.

“Because—” he swallows. Not emptily. But an actual gulp. He’s having his evening milk, with one droplet of vanilla in it. Chanyeol can smell it. Then another gulp. “Because how do we get over this?” he says. “You won’t love again in fear you’d be left behind, and I won’t love again in fear I’ll hurt them as much as I’m hurting you.”

Chanyeol rubs his forehead on the glass. It’s not cold anymore. He moves his head to find coolness again. It’s the epicentre of a numbness, suffusing slowly through him.

Chanyeol won’t love again after this. He’s right.

“This is….big to me,” Jongin continues. One huge gulp – the rest of his cup all in one go. When it’s not hot anymore, but lukewarm, and he doesn’t like it. “I won’t recover easily.”

“It’s big to me too.”

“We really have…had so much.”

They’ve been together for nine years. Nine. That isn’t a short life. But it seemed to stretch enough to maybe pass into a forever. Nothing should last that long if it intended to give in.

“I love you,” Chanyeol says.

Jongin goes silent.  

 

 

 

 

Three days later, Jongin is knocking on the door.

Chanyeol opens for him.

Jongin enters. Shoe next to shoe, parallel, unlike Chanyeol’s which always have the tips apart, for that’s how he walks too. Awkward but cute, _like a baby something, I don’t knoooow but it’s so cute,_ Jongin kissed a giggle into his cheek. Jongin is mindful even of his walk, feet in a line. His shoes reflect that.

And these shoes are another beginning.

If it’s the optimism talking. It’s the optimism shouting. This is a beginning.

They should hug. They should kiss. They haven’t seen each other in a week.

They don’t.

Jongin speaks.

“I’m breaking up with you.”

His tone calibrated to be kind, be merciful, but firm and definitive. Chanyeol never heard him speak this way – a sonance that seems to come from another body, another person, another life. Finality is something too harsh for Jongin, who is sinuous, giving, in his character, and in his emotionality.

Not ‘let’s break up’. Not us. Because while it’s something they do together, it’s not something Chanyeol has the capacity or strength to participate in. He will go along, a follower, on his knees, but not be an instigator. Jongin will allow him the luxury of being the victim. Will treat him with the due remorse. Chanyeol doesn’t have to do anything but stand there and be broken up with.

“Did you cheat?” He wonders. Because for the past three days, he couldn’t get in contact with Jongin. At all. Chanyeol went crazy.

“No,” he replies immediate. “ _Chanyeol_. No.” He walks forward. He has new socks on. The socks they bought on their last shopping trip at the mall, all black with red toes. “I was just hiking. I went out. I just couldn’t do anything but move. I needed that.”

He does that. He did that when his father got sick, after he failed a couple of job interviews in a row, after his phone was stolen.

“Then why did you even come here?” he asks. He’s looking at the socks. They’re nice. They suit him. “You could’ve just called. Or you could’ve asked me to come back. There is no point in me being here by myself anyway.” He hasn’t stepped out in days. He couldn’t tell daylight from the glare of the lamp. All that changed was the number on his lock screen. Chanyeol did nothing here.

Jongin is incredulous. “You think I could’ve done that? After all of _this_ , to break up with you through the phone?”

So he boarded a plane and flew a whole world just to break up with him. This is that momentous.

“So it’s better that you came solely to do this,” Chanyeol says, biting, but it’s with fake fangs.

And this is the pause. This is when it hurts.

Because Jongin didn’t come here just to break up with him. He came here to continue their trip. Their poor excuse of a restoration trip.

But somehow, from the moment Chanyeol opened the door, till the words were out of his mouth, he decided this is the end.

What did he see that pushed him. Chanyeol’s greasy hair. His posture. All of him. Incredibly unattractive. Chanyeol’s heart is mad in his chest. Jongin is in front of him, he’s seeing Jongin, whom he hasn’t seen in a week. He missed him. He missed him so much it felt like atrophy, like there was no reason to move at all in his absence.

And for Jongin, seeing him was just the last drop.

It only now hits. It _hits_. Chanyeol staggers back. He tears up.

Jongin is wearing his favourite sweater. Might be the last he wears it this season. He will see it again next winter. His jeans. The comfy ones. The plane ride ones, weak between the legs, bunched at his knees. And Chanyeol, in the last change of fresh clothes, the most rigid ones, it so happened. Their cerements.

He finally takes his jacket off. He doesn’t know where to put it. He puts it on the arm of the closest recliner. Like a guest. Not like his boyfriend.

He approaches Chanyeol. “I’m not in love with you anymore.”

 As a justifier to his previous statement. So as a whole, it is ‘I’m breaking up with you because I’m not in love with you anymore.’

This is what he wanted to hear.

Why. Why. Why is he so stupid. Why is he so _fucking_ stupid.

If only he could have gauges how much this hurts, he wouldn’t have wished for it.

Chanyeol cries. From nothing to uncontrollable sobbing in no time.

Jongin is in front of him, hands places on his arms. “I’m sorry. I had to try. I had to stay until it was all gone.” His eyes shine. “I couldn’t leave you before that. I’m sorry.” And then a whisper. “ _I’m sorry_.”

Chanyeol is taking steps back. This shouldn’t happen in the hallway. If he went for decorum by coming all the way here just for this, then he can aim for some more.

He’s crying, violently, while it’s also somewhat calm. Placid. Chanyeol just hurts. And pain is simple.

“I love you,” Jongin says, lips shaky. “In a million ways. That won’t go away. _Ever_.” He licks his lips. They’re still tremulant. “I’m sorry.”

This is the whole breakup. It barely lasted a few minutes, it barely took a few words. Or it took a year, way more words than it should’ve.

 _I’m sorry_. And with this, they’re not together anymore. This is the end.

Chanyeol takes a step back. From his ex-boyfriend.

His eyes are void, just the sockets, and the gore beyond.

“If I come to your house in the middle of the night, don’t open the door,” Chanyeol says. Because he will. They don’t live together. They have separate studio apartments. A twenty-minute walk apart. Five to seven minutes by car. Clothes all over the place, cutlery, memories. They lived together, not in the same house, but their togetherness was preserved between two roofs. Chanyeol knows the code to his door, his address by heart – to order food just before leaving his place, so it would be there just in time when Chanyeol arrived to have dinner together. Because it’s automatic to be there. Third floor. Second door to the right. Where Jongin is. The Jongin Chanyeol will want to see. He _already_ wants to see.

He takes another step back. Jongin follows him. Black socks with red toes. Chanyeol’s socks are Jongin’s. Jongin prefers patterned socks. Plaid, motley. Robots, kittens, typography. These have lettering around the sole. A psalm. Because psalms are in vogue.

“If I text you,” Chanyeol says. He’s crying. Harder. Or more. Something squeezes inside him, his guts pulled together. It’s almost an exotic sensation, novel. “If I call you, don’t answer me.”

Jongin has taken as many steps as Chanyeol has. His hands reach for the sides of his face. He doesn’t wipe Chanyeol’s tears away. They’re too many anyway.

“If I contact you on social—block me,” he says, shaking his head. “Just block me everywhere.” Jongin posts things too. They both do. It’s nice to have their life documented somewhere. Digital journaling. This week, Jongin posted a dramatic boomerang of him forgetting about his ramyeon and the noodles getting so soggy they broke on his chopsticks. A picture of a splatter of paint on the asphalt that looked like a smiley face. The past three days, Chanyeol refreshed, and refreshed, and refreshed his profile page. Nothing. “I’ll wonder about you like mad. I’ll stalk you – I already do— did— done,” his tongue tumbles in his mouth. Jongin’s fingers begin swiping over his cheeks. “Block me everywhere, please.”

Jongin doesn’t say anything.

“Change the passwords too. To your emails. You’re logged in on my laptop.”

He will want to see. Will want to know. What he’s ordering online – his new bathmat arrived during the week. Chanyeol intercepted the delivery.

Jongin still isn’t saying anything. Chanyeol takes steps back. His calves hit the bed. He sits. His body is too long, too wide, too spread out, so he gathers it all up, so he doesn’t lose any piece. Jongin follows him, curves around him, settles like a protective shell.

They end up side by side on the bed. Jongin is still cupping his face. Chanyeol can’t see his eyes though the mist of his own. He slowly grabs Jongin’s shirt.

“Your house code.”

Jongin’s forehead presses to his. Chanyeol moves to cup his face too. He’s crying too. He’s crying too. Why. It should only be Chanyeol. He doesn’t like this. Jongin crying. He hates it. Jongin should never cry.

“I don’t need to do any of this,” he says. His breath smells sweet, artificially sweet, plastic fruits – he’s had gummies. Which he eats when he’s kind of hungry, and picky, and won’t have just anything. A small baggy of fruity gummies to tide him over until he gets to something nice.

Chanyeol feels worse about the fact that Jongin is hungry right now than he feels about himself. He should’ve eaten, then broken up with him. They should’ve gone and dined together, then come back to break up. A break up on a full stomach should be a little easier to handle.

“Don’t trust me,” Chanyeol says. He wraps his arm around Jongin’s waist. He’s so lovely to hold. It brings him calm, embrocating. His presence alone is that powerful. He might be crying, he might be distressed, but he’s also calm, because Jongin is here. And Jongin holds him back, putting a hand around his waist too and bringing him close. “I’ll hurt myself. Just do it. Change the passwords.”

He can already see how much he will wonder. How much he will want to know. But he doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t want to care anymore.

“Don’t let me see you,” he continues. Looking at Jongin. Seeing Jongin. He’s beautiful, over and over, beautiful anew with each blink. He always had this effect on Chanyeol. Even now, when he is a mess, when his features are besmeared with woe. “I’ll want to see you. I’ll hope to see you.” He brushes his hair away from his face. “But don’t let me.”

Jongin bites his lip.

“If I look for you, pretend I’m not there.” Cold eyes. Necrotized eyes. Chanyeol feels bad for asking this of Jongin, to make him act like this towards him, with such unkindness, when he knows nothing but kindness. But he needs it.

“At least for a while, don’t let me see you. Not that I don’t want to see you.” Because he wants to. Already. When he’s looking into his eyes, he can already imagine how he’ll miss them the moment he’s not looking at them anymore. How he will miss so many pieces of him, how he will miss the whole of him, his bigness, his sprightliness. “I just shouldn’t see you.”

“We can’t be friends?” Jongin asks. He’s whispering. It’s minced, uneven.

“We can,” Chanyeol says. “And we will. Just not now.” Because he cannot comprehend not being close to Jongin for the rest of his life, but right now he can’t bear being around Jongin, in love with him, and not have him.

Jongin nods. In a few months, maybe, if Chanyeol recovers well enough. Or years. Or decades. He doesn’t know. He cannot give Jongin a number.

“Anything else?” Jongin asks. His palm moves up and down in the dale of Chanyeol’s waist.

Chanyeol, now, cannot think of anything else. Cannot think about himself anymore. Jongin seems so afflicted. This is so hard for him. This has been so hard for him. He tried so hard.

“You were a good boyfriend to me. The best. Never think otherwise.”

“ _Chanyeol_.”

And there is a kiss. It tastes of nothing. Prosaic. But hot. Hot and ardent, and the insistence of it, looking to break into the flesh, brand it with pressure. Make it memorable.

“I’ll miss you. I’ve been missing you. I’ll miss you so much more,” he cries. Chanyeol cries. This couldn’t have happened otherwise. There was weeping in everything. There wasn’t a single thing they haven’t spoken to each other without the stress and fray of a snivel.

They don’t speak anymore. Chanyeol falls asleep in Jongin’s embrace. Thieved. A fitting ending perhaps, the quietude, and restfulness of sleep nestled into his hug, instead of being mindful of all contact – _it’s the last time I’ll have my head to his chest, it’s the last time I’m kissing him, it’s the last time, it’s the last_ \- it’s better.

 

 

 

 

When he wakes up, Jongin is gone.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

 

It’s days later. The sun has gone down a couple of times. Has risen a couple of times. False. It just moved to another place, brought the day upon another land. It’s the same day, then. It’s the same day, not a cycle, not a repeat, and they haven’t been sleepless, but they’ve been long. Stretched until the day is as thin as a cobweb.

Chanyeol in a cupcake shop. Instant happiness, saccharine breaths, crystals and butter. Chanyeol points to each tray in the vitrine, asking for one of each variety. They’re pretty, they’re many. Chanyeol cannot choose.

It’s buzzy in the little shop, doorbell ringing continuously, yet he manages to find himself a little table.

He begins eating.

At first Chanyeol uses the tiny fork. The handle is dirty all the way now, so he uses his hands. Peels off the paper, stuffs it in his mouth. The casing is printed too, polka dots, stars, and other cuties. They’re misty to his eyes. Unfocused.

He rips the blurry paper away, dives into the firmament. Softness and sweetness and a bit of acidity. It’s a sumptuous combination.  

“You didn’t take one of the best.” He sees a little plate being put in front of him. All the plates here are little, because the cupcakes are little too. It’s a world of littleness.

Chanyeol gathers himself and his little space to make a little space for the newcomer. It’s a table for two after all.

“I’m sure this one wasn’t on display,” Chanyeol says, mouth full, looking back at his own little plate. This one has galaxy mirror glaze on it. Prussian blue and amethyst, and a sprinkling of white stars. Is that really what the galaxy looks like. It could be. The whole galaxy on this little cupcake. Chanyeol stuffs it in his mouth, all at once.

“It wasn’t. I just know to ask for it, since they only do these for custom orders. They always make extra though.”

Chanyeol looks up. He blinks. And then recognition settles in his gut, along with the buttercream. “Baekhyun,” he whispers. “Baekhyun-ssi,” he corrects immediately.

He wasn’t Baekhyun-ssi the last Chanyeol saw him.

“Oh, so you remember me _now_ ,” he laughs. His voice is raspy, as though it hasn’t quite finished leavening. It’s a pleasant quality.

“When didn’t I remember you?” he asks. His mouth is full. Of cream. Custard. Or jam. Or buttercream. His tongue doesn’t quite make out the difference anymore.

There is more to this. Baekhyun being here. Baekhyun whom Chanyeol hasn’t seen in so long. But he doesn’t feel much. Maybe a bit better, a bit less alone. But mostly he just wants to eat his cupcakes.

“I danced on you? And you cried on me?”

Someone drops their fork. A child begins crying.

“Fuck,” Chanyeol mutters.

Baekhyun laughs again. He laughed twice already. Did he always laugh this much. Or this is how much normal people laugh.

“When was that?”

“I don’t know, like two weeks ago?”

When he got drunk in that club. Which he remembers very, very little of, could almost pass for a mirage.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Chanyeol mumbles. “Sorry.”  He doesn’t know exactly how to talk to him. Formally because he is a stranger. Or informally, because they were once very close.

“I’d ask how you’ve been, but it doesn’t seem to be the right time for that,” Baekhyun says, taking a seat. The legs of the chair scrape the floor. Aside his little plate, he puts a cup of tea too. Not in a paper cup, but porcelain.

He eats his cupcake with big bites, basically cut it into quarters, and eats a whole wedge at a time. His cheek bulges dramatically. Chanyeol feels the odd urge to poke it, or squeeze it, the same way he would an overdue pimple.

“Are you here for business, or for pleasure?” he asks. He has one quarter left.

Maybe at first it was business - fixing themselves. Now that the business is finished – and a complete failure, there is only pleasure left. But that’s not quite right.

“Neither,” he says. He follows Baekhyun, and quarters his cupcake too. He shoves it all in, then licks the buttercream that didn’t quite make it off his lips. “You?”

Baekhyun doesn’t have any buttercream to lick off his lips. He did it neatly like that. “Both.”

Chanyeol tries a second time. He doesn’t make it now either. It doesn’t matter. Baekhyun sips his tea.

“Both?”

“I work here, and I also have fun here.”

“I remember you said you wanted to be a singer,” Chanyeol says. They had this talk, like all kids did, close to bedtime, when dreams were just a bit more vivid.

“I’m not,” Baekhyun laughs. _Hehe_ ’s dovetailing the shake of his head. His hair is ruffled. Chanyeol looks at his clothes too. A bomber jacket over a tee – with a stain on it. House clothes. It’s morning, isn’t it. Chanyeol didn’t even notice. Baekhyun is here for breakfast. Is it the weekend too then. He quarters the next cupcake. He had two on his plate. Both of them with pink rock sugar on top, and a button of meringue.

“Unless karaoke counts?” He leans in, biting into the meringue. Crunch crunch.

Chanyeol moves his eyes back to his face. Puffy eyes. Totally morning. “It counts.”

“Then I have become the singer I dreamed to be.” He swallows another quarter. Just as cleanly. Chanyeol is a little jealous of this skill. “What about you? You said you wanted to be an astronaut?”

Would be nice if Chanyeol was on the moon right now. Or on Mars. Somewhere far. Would be really nice. The universe is the only thing big enough to take his mind off Jongin. Or he could have another one of those galaxy cupcakes instead. That could do. “All kids want to become astronauts, but how many end up being one, really?”

“So you’ve never set foot on any planet?” When he puts his tea cup down, it doesn’t make a sound.

“Does Earth count?”

Baekhyun smiles. He has dimples, shallow, barely there. Chanyeol doesn’t remember these. When did they happen. “It does.”

“I’m an astronaut,” Chanyeol says, looking down. He has six cupcakes left. His are all in a box. And then he has the one little plate to eat them off of one by one. Baekhyun doesn’t have any left now. Two out of two gone. He has folded the casing in half, and aligned the curve of it to the plate. Tidy.

He puts one of his cupcakes on Baekhyun’s plate. He doesn’t refuse it, but doesn’t thank Chanyeol for it either. He just picks up his tiny fork, and begins quartering it.

“Are you really?” he asks, cheeks and lashes.

With his other hand, he picks up the tea and stretches it towards Chanyeol. It’s a huge cup, about thrice the size of a regular one. The teabag in it was also very fat, now lying in its own juices on the inverted lid of the cup. Maybe it’s on the basis of what they were once that Baekhyun sharing his tea with him is not all that peculiar. He takes it, because he really needs a drink.

“I’m not. I’m a lawyer,” Chanyeol says, sniffing the cup lightly. It has an aroma that is unnatural, something not botanic, but fabricated, buds of delight and wanderlust. It’s only the scent. The taste is weak, as only an afterthought. But hot. Chanyeol has two sips, before he puts it back where it was on Baekhyun’s right. He’s already eaten half the cupcake.

“Ooooo,” he says, mouth puckering over the mountain of cupcake between his cheeks. “Fancy.”

“Not really,” Chanyeol says. “Unless fancy means boring?” He thought it was fancy too, before he started.

“If fancy means money?” Candid. A little bold, for the hint of mischief dusted on his lips. Joined by blue powder sugar.

“Then it’s fancy,” Chanyeol cedes.

Baekhyun picks for himself a cupcake from Chanyeol’s box. And then another. Chanyeol has drunk half of Baekhyun’s tea. It’s an impromptu cupcake eating contest. Chanyeol felt sick to his stomach, then it went away, and came back just as they gave up. There is only so much cake one could ingest.

“Well, this was definitely a pleasure,” he declares, leaning back in his chair.

Chanyeol nods. He’s sick. But it’s not from the cupcakes. He doesn’t want to talk.

Baekhyun gets up. The chair scrapes again. Chanyeol notices the small book hanging out of his pocket. Brown pages – very dark. The cover green. Plasticky. He doesn’t see the title. It’s not a new book. Too frazzled for this. Does he just carry it in his pocket. Chanyeol wonders if he would’ve brought it out to read as he ate if he was by himself.

“Will I see you around?”

Chanyeol falters. He might leave right now. Get out of here and climb the first plane, to anywhere other than _home_. But he doesn’t feel like it. “You’ll see me around.”

“Around where?” Baekhyun presses. They’ve met by accident two times now, but they’re in London, which is no small city.

He thinks about the keycard in his pocket. “My Bloomsbury, room 312.”

They won’t meet again, most likely.

“I won’t forget.” And with that, and a wave, he is gone. Chanyeol looks at his box. Four cupcakes left. He can’t eat anymore. He gets up. A lady behind the counter asks if he would like to take these home in another, smaller box. Taken aback, he says no, in Korean, and exits the shop with a little, reflexive bow.

Baekhyun is already nowhere to be seen.

Chanyeol is alone.

 

 

 

 

He calls Junmyeon. He hasn’t since they arrived here. This call is pending. Junmyeon can go only so long without wanting all the whereabouts of his ass.

“Oh dear, I almost went into withdrawal,” Junmyeon moans once he picks up.

Chanyeol smiles. He says these cute things, but throws them as though they’re insults.

“ _Oh dear_ ,” Junmyeon moans again. If he’s into such theatrics, he must be bored-tired beyond belief. Bored-tiredness: n. when one is so tired, they cannot do anything, which furthers them into boredom. White-collar pestilence. Chanyeol can already picture him with the bottle of soju resting on his thigh as he’s sitting cross legged on his new white fluffy rug that he lovingly named Cotton.

“What’s the time there?” Chanyeol asks. He takes a turn. Neither to the left, nor to the right, but somewhere in the middle. The roads here are so curly. It seems.

“Uhh, like,” Junmyeon drawls. Chanyeol can hear him fumbling as he’s looking for his phone to check the clock, as though the phone isn’t in his hand. “Oh, yeaaaahh.” He laughs, pitch sky-scraping. Chanyeol’s ear hurts. He missed that. “It’s almooost one in the morning – ah. I should go to sleep, right?”

“Right,” Chanyeol echoes. He walks. Takes one more turn, follows the sidewalk. He doesn’t have any destination in mind. He just wants to keep walking. Maybe he will discover the end of the world. Or the end of himself.

“But soju,” he weeps. “So good.” Some thumps – Junmyeon hitting himself in the chest dramatically. Very dramatically. What’s a broken rib. “My friend. At least soju didn’t forget about _me_. Unlike _someone_.”

“ _You_ didn’t call either,” Chanyeol huffs. “Why is it on me?”

“I was the one,” pause, gulps, slosh slosh, “to call the last time!”

“I was once the one to call you _three_ times in a row.”

“Because you are a dumbass who can’t understand directions!”

“I think that makes _you_ the dumbass who can’t give directions!” Chanyeol is shouting. But smiling.

Junmyeon is silent – just of words. He is however gurgling some more of that soju. Loudly. _Pointedly_.

Chanyeol laughs. He nearly hits someone. He looks around for a second. A street. Buildings. People. Not the end of the world. He keeps walking.

“You better tell me you missed me right now,” Junmyeon says, defeated, but firm.

“Or else?” defies Chanyeol.

“I won’t say I miss you.”

“Oh shit,” he exclaims in horror. “Can’t have that.”

Junmyeon giggles. His drunken giggles are different from sober giggles – downier, freer. Lovesome.

“I miss you,” Chanyeol says. He stops at the bus stop, and waits along with the other people on the platform. He will just board whatever bus arrives.

Junmyeon sighs exaggeratedly. Sincerely. “I miss you too.”

He can see the bus in the distance. He squints for a second at the stops written on it, before realizing he doesn’t care.

He smiles once more. Junmyeon is so sappy. And he’s not usually like this.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I’m sad.”

As though he even needed to say that. As though Chanyeol didn’t know from the first word out of his mouth.

“Why? Did they run out of your favourite instant chocolate at the office again?” He gets the jitters if he doesn’t have it at 3 PM sharp.

“No.”

The bus comes. Chanyeol scans the card, takes a seat. “Then?”

“He broke up with you, didn’t he?”

Chanyeol pulls his legs together. It’s not crowded. But he doesn’t like the sight of his knees being apart like that. Like they’re broken from the hip, not his own anymore. “Did you see him?”

“No.”

“Then how did you know?”

Silence. A drag. He doesn’t have any more soju. He doesn’t keep it in the house. He buys it if he needs to. Just one bottle. “I don’t know. I just. Did. Thought. Assumed.” Enumeration, words smashing into each other.

Chanyeol closes his eyes. He forgets where he is. On a chair, yes, on a bus, yes, but that could be anywhere. He switches the phone to his left hand, and puts the right one between his thighs, squeezing to warm it. It’s not cold. “It really was about time that it ended, isn’t it?”

He had no one to talk to about this so far. And before, he didn’t dare to think of what would be _after_. Wouldn’t it have been a bad omen. Some backend sabotage.

“No, it’s not that. You two just weren’t…good anymore.”

Good. That is a word too skimpy. Tongued day and night, incessantly, by everyone. And it fits perfectly.

“We weren’t good. This was for the best.” It wasn’t, necessarily. But saying that is easier than admitting that this could’ve gone another way, left less of a cicatrix, left him with all his senses, not pounded him into some insentient miscreation. Maybe.

“Why aren’t you back?” Junmyeon asks. He’s drunk. He’s drunk and sleepy, tender, heart atop his chest. “Why are you there, where I’m not?”

_Are you alright by yourself? Isn’t this exactly a time when you shouldn’t be by yourself?_

“The room is still paid for a few more days,” he says. Three. He asked.

“So what?”

“So nothing.” Chanyeol opens his eyes. Streets. Buildings. People. He closes them again.

“Your plane ticket?” he asks.

They got two-way ones. Jongin didn’t use his. Twice.

“I lost it.”

“Get another one.”

He opens his eyes. Closes them. “You should visit London. It’s nice.”

“You should visit Seoul. It’s nice.”

Chanyeol hums. “I don’t know about that. I heard people there are really bad drivers.”

“You’re part of that statistic,” Junmyeon bites. Softly, teeth of torpor.

“You’re part of that statistic too, more so than me—”

“Yes, I crashed your car, _once_ , okay, okay, _I know_ , stop bringing it up.”

Chanyeol laughs. He keeps laughing with Junmyeon, though it doesn’t feel like anything. Like it’s just the backtrack, a tape rewound over and over and screaming from his chest. He should buy tapes with other sounds too.

Junmyeon sighs. Or yawns. Or both.

“So when will you be back?”

“I will be back when I will be back.”

“Let me know.”

“Go to bed,” Chanyeol says. With his eyes closed, it feels like it’s one in the morning for him too. But it’s not.

“No, the bed should come to _me_ ,” Junmyeon protests. Just to talk to Chanyeol a little more.

“Go to bed,” he says again.

“I’m going,” another sigh-yawn, but more yawn than sigh. “Good night, Chanyeollie.”

“Good night, Junmyeonnie.”

“Awww, you’re cute.”

And he hangs up.

Chanyeol gets off the bus. It’s the end of the world.

 

 

 

 

Chanyeol never met Jongin. Jongin was just where Chanyeol was. They were, not met. They did nothing. Didn’t bow, exchange names, birthdates, blood types. Jongin was by Chanyeol’s side, on some side, left, right, front or back. He was somewhere. All the time. There. Reachable. Jubilant. Stressed. Hungry. Sleepy. Bored.

Maybe the first time Chanyeol saw him was in the library, sitting across the table from him, a few seats off. Highlighters and sticky notes, and a stack of books so high that he could barely be seen from behind it. He was muttering to himself, completely silent – no one dared to make a sound in the library, not when miss Jeon was on guard. But Chanyeol could hear him. He didn’t know his voice, but the movement of his lips was so expressive that he could hear everything word for word. Chanyeol’s been over that book. He must be a second year.

Chanyeol looked back down at his own book. He lost the line he was at. He only has one pen, and one notebook. He has to note down everything important in his own words – highlighting never worked for him. But he doesn’t remember when he tried it last. He was about to ask him to borrow a highlighter when Chanyeol looked up, and they met eyes.

They were warm. And curious. And surprisingly, a bit daring, a bit assertive. Chanyeol couldn’t keep holding his gaze, but he also couldn’t look away. It was him who looked away, a few panicked heartbeats later.

And then he was there, for a year. They were in the same place, over and over, over and over, exchanging and holding gazes here and there, but there was never a word.

And then, one day, they met at the shitty coffee machine in front of the university, and they spoke, just a simple _Do you have extra change? I thought I had enough,_ as Chanyeol recounted the coins in his palm.

Jongin smiled at him, and Chanyeol smiled back.

And then they didn’t stop smiling at each other for nine years.

 

 

 

 

He gets a call from the reception desk. Is it about room service. No. Someone is looking for him. A Baekhyun Byun. Chanyeol doesn’t understand it at first.

Chanyeol who is doing nothing but switching channels on TV. Eating supermarket sandwiches. He bought three. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. He doesn’t intend to go anywhere today. He watched a few movies. The commercials are long. Watched the news, found a thing or two happening in this country. The same sort of things that are happening in any country.

He puts the phone back into the fork. Baekhyun Byun is waiting for him downstairs.

Why not go. Why not see Baekhyun. There’s literally no one else here who would come to see him. Maybe Chanyeol wants to be seen. It will be proof that he still, well, exists. Though he could be a ghost too, and Baekhyun is of the special kind who can see and communicate with them.

He’s really watched too many movies.

He throws on some clothes. The same ones he’s worn out the past few days – he’s already reached the very last change he – _they_ – brought here. He should get them cleaned soon.

In the mirror, he’s just…Chanyeol. Looking equally homeless as he does presentable. He pokes his cheek. The finger sinks in a lot. He doesn’t know what he’s searching for, but he pokes until it can go no further, until it hurts, then he runs a hand through his hair and gets out the door.

 

 

 

 

He looks for Baekhyun when he arrives in the lobby. He finds him at the counter of the little coffeeshop adjacent to the waiting area. It was hard to spot him. Chanyeol already forgot what he looks like. He relearns – suede jacket, turtleneck, light wash jeans. Smart. Smart casual. Different from the hoodie and sweats ensemble he saw him in last. He approaches him when Baekhyun turns right around.

“I don’t know if you like this, but if you don’t, two for me,” he says, beaming. He’s really beaming. Luminescence concentrated in the rectangularity of his stretched lips. It’s the same. The rectangular smile. The big ears too. Those he remembers.

“What is it?” Could be tea.

“Coffee. I need a pick me up for the afternoon sluggishness.”

“And you came to pick _me_ up for it?” Chanyeol questions, taking the small paper cup Baekhyun is offering him. Is he the kind to just pay for coffee for anyone. Chanyeol didn’t think to take his wallet. He can’t pay him back now.

“The coffee they make here is really good, didn’t you try it? I come by just for it sometimes. Now I just have—" wink flung over his shoulder, “extra reason.”

Chanyeol is almost flattered. He bought him coffee and he came to see him. Just what _is_ he.

Nothing. Chanyeol is nothing.

He follows Baekhyun out of the hotel. He seems to know the place, indeed. He responds to a greeting, English easy on his lips.

Not far, just a while ahead, there is a bench in front of the back entrance of a building, in a gangway of sorts, a bit of verdure climbing on walls. Baekhyun sits, immediately pulling a knee under himself. He knows this bench. It’s not surrounded by other benches. It’s just one, lone bench. Chanyeol relates to it.

Chanyeol sits next to him. He pulls his legs together – so he doesn’t lose them – and stays as far away from Baekhyun as possible.

“I don’t bite,” Baekhyun says, huffy. He puts his cup down on the plank of the bench. They’re wide apart, schisms between. “Not even if asked.”

“Why?”

“I prefer being bitten,” he says, procuring a bundle of sugar packets and sticks out of his pocket. He gives half of the bundle to Chanyeol. He has no retort to that.

He just takes the lid off and begins pouring sugar into the coffee.

“I’m surprised you’re still here. I thought you’d left,” Baekhyun says over the rim of his cup. He takes a small sip, then puts it back down, adds more sugar.

“Where?” snorts Chanyeol.

“I don’t know. Where are you coming from?”

Chanyeol has no provenance. Just—”Mom.”

Baekhyun laughs. Aloud. Like Chanyeol is funny. Well, so far it seems Chanyeol is both visible _and_ funny. And possibly not a ghost.

He noses into his own cup. Doesn’t take a sip. Baekhyun finished laughing.

“I’m just really curious why you are here,” he says, with a hue of self-reprimand. “But you don’t want to tell me.” He’s made peace with that. Sounds like he won’t ask ever again.

Chanyeol leans back. The bench creaks. Or he creaks.

It’s not that Chanyeol doesn’t want to tell him. Chanyeol has no feeling at all about this. Whether Baekhyun knows or not amounts to nothing.

“I came here with my boyfriend,” he says. 

“A boyfriend?” Baekhyun exclaims at once, a breathy little interjection preceding it. “That’s _so_ gay.”

 _Oh_. It is gay. Chanyeol forgot about that aspect. He doesn’t have any sort of energy to care for it.

“Hey,” Baekhyun then calls, turning towards him, pulling his other foot under himself. He’s all comfy now. Chanyeol wished he could do that too, if only his legs were okay. “Kibeom.”

Chanyeol doesn’t get it. “Kibeom?”

Baekhyun nods, leaning towards him. “Kibeom!”

And then Chanyeol remembers. And laughs. Kibeom, his very first crush, when he was eleven or twelve, and it was on a boy, and it was baffling, because a boy is not a girl, and he should like girls. And he couldn’t tell this to anyone other than Baekhyun, months later, when they met in summer again. He doesn’t even know how Baekhyun pulled it out of him that time – it was his most cherished secret.

“I hadn’t seen him again after middle school,” Chanyeol says, stirring the coffee some more. He puts the lid back on. Baekhyun kept his off.

Then another thing plops into mind. “Taemin,” Chanyeol braves. He hopes it’s right. He hopes he’s naming the right boy, for just a summer later, Baekhyun also reported his very first crush, a boy who was also not a girl. It was funny. So funny.

Baekhyun seems taken aback that he remembered it right. “The last I saw him was before I left,” he says, taking a sip. His first good sip after he adjusted it for sweetness. He moans. Pornographic. Shameless. Then takes another sip and makes a little dance. All shoulders. “When I tell you this is good,” he whispers, breathing in the vapours. Chanyeol hasn’t tasted his yet. Baekhyun looks back at him. Nothing’s changed it his eyes, they’re just as infantile, as limpid as they have always been.

He puts the cup down. “And I lied? It was never Taemin.”

Chanyeol finally musters up the courage to have a sip. Sugary. Very sugary. But rich, dense, bitter and creamy. Truly one of the best lattes he’s ever had, even dumbed down with sugar as it is.

“Why did you lie?” he wonders. It’s shocking, somewhat. Because at that age, lying is harder than telling the truth. And he wonders what reason Baekhyun had to lie to him.

Baekhyun laughs, not a hehehe, not a hahaha, but another one, that is more chest and throat than breath. “Because it was Chanyeol.”

Chanyeol halts. The way Baekhyun is looking at him. Nothing is there, other than mild curiosity and playfulness. The same Baekhyun he recalls. And there is no crush that traverses half a lifetime like this. Maybe it was just discovery – and that’s too shallow to last.

Chanyeol snorts. “That’s so gay.”

Baekhyun snorts too, leans to hit him, elbow to his arm. So this is why. Maybe. Or it’s not. Totally not. Chanyeol doesn’t really care what this is, actually.

“My gay is intact.”

“Mine too.” A smile, tying knowledgeable simpers.

“But why are you alone now? What about the boyfriend? You didn’t leave him inside all by himself, did you?” he gasps. “And come to have an affair with me?”

He gulps down the coffee until he can see the granular slush of undissolved sugar at the bottom of his cup. He put four sugar packets in there. His mistake. He owns up to it.

Baekhyun is peering at him. Serene, expectant.

The spumescence in his thorax, waning and waxing, waning and waxing, never knowing any peace, any calm, any promise.

He takes another gulp. “He fell out of love with me.”

Baekhyun’s face falls. The skull remains naked for a moment, before another one just appears, just as kind as the other one, but just a bit more crinkled. Chanyeol wishes he had a few spare faces in his pocket like that.

Baekhyun sips his coffee. Grimaces. “I heard that’s awful.”

The wind blows. Baekhyun’s bangs get into his eyes. He doesn’t brush them away.

“I heard it’s awful too.”

“And?” 

Chanyeol looks away. The parted bench planks. He could fall in between them, if he squeezes himself tight enough.

“Awful doesn’t even begin to describe it.”

He doesn’t look up to see with what eyes Baekhyun is looking at him. He doesn’t say sorry.

Is this even a matter to be sorry for. Like condolences. No. Not really.

His tongue is itchy. “He couldn’t have possibly been my everything. But it felt like that. I couldn’t think of anything that I missed. That I wanted more.” He bites into it. Unlike Jongin’s teeth, Junmyeon’s teeth, his own are real. They pierce.

Baekhyun is silent. Listening. But silent. It’s hard to reply to this. Chanyeol himself doesn’t know what to reply to this. But Baekhyun is here, just here, leaning in a little closer, arm on the back of the bench, head in his hand.

Junmyeon is right. Maybe he shouldn’t be alone at this time. Telling this story to the walls of his hotel room wouldn’t be as good, even if they, just like Baekhyun, don’t reply back.

Maybe it was this. This stagnancy. This deadness of desire – no more seeking, no more wondering. Necrotized will.

In an impulse, he brings his phone out and browses through his gallery. Because it’s that fresh, and he misses him that much. He’s not used to this.

He finds the last picture they took together before — before. It was easy to find it. They barely took any afterwards.

He turns the phone towards Baekhyun. They took it in a restaurant on Jongin’s lunch break. Which they did often, because their offices were not very far apart, and their lunch breaks matched. They have hundreds of pictures like this. Greasy lips and full cheeks, head to head to fit into the frame.

“Oh,” Baekhyun says, messy eyebrows shooting up. He looks at the picture for a long time, eyes going side to side, Jongin to Chanyeol, Jongin to Chanyeol. “Is he a lawyer too?” Baekhyun asks, and Chanyeol wonders what gave it away until he sees that Jongin is wearing his blazer too, pin attached to the lapel.

“A prosecutor.”

“An occupational couple.”

“We met in law school.”

Baekhyun is still looking. Oddly fond. Like a parent at his children.

“He’s beautiful.”

That hurts. Chanyeol doesn’t know where to put his hand to soothe. It would be too small anyway. He just puts it on his thigh. It hurts there too. He rubs.

“He is.”

“But you even more so,” he stares right at Chanyeol as he says this, confident, the previous mood wiped out. Then he winks and licks his lips. _Seductively_.

Chanyeol laughs, the sound, the movement of it ripped out of him, like Baekhyun reached for it himself.

Baekhyun titters too, head tipped back, cup to his lips. It echoes into it until it peters out.

Chanyeol stops rubbing his thigh.

When he lowers the cup, now empty, his eyes fall back to the phone. He gasps. “Oh, damn, gotta go now.”

He scrambles to get up.

“Where?” Chanyeol asks, automatic.

“Class,” he says, smoothing down his shirt and dusting off his behind. He puts the empty sugar packets and the stick into the cup, then puts the lid back on it.

“My Bloomsbury 312, I might pass by again?” he posies. It’s a question.

There is no one else to visit him here. Other than Baekhyun. Like he is in an asylum, all bones, waiting for the yearly visits of the grandkids.

“You might,” he says.

“Kay,” Baekhyun throws, garnished with a wink, as he pivots on his feet and hastens away. Chanyeol stares after him until he reaches the parking lot, unlocks a little car – just two seats – climbs in, and speeds away.

 

 

 

 

The following morning, Chanyeol takes his clothes to a cleaner, leaving just the sweats and the tee on himself.

At the hotel, he makes the bed, throws out the sandwich wrappers, empties the can of beer that he opened and only took one sip of, and bins that too. He showers. Washes his socks in the sink with a nugget of soap provided by the hotel. Leaves them to dry on the radiator.

He opens his laptop. He hasn’t since Jongin left.

He notices immediately the forced log out on the tabs left open in the browser. It’s due to changed passwords. Jongin already changed them.

He’s curious. He wants to know. He needs to know. He doesn’t even know where Jongin is. He was just gone. But how gone. How far. Is he back in Korea. Is he still here. Maybe he’s in the next room from his. Wall to wall. Two days ago, he thought he’d heard him on the streets. The same voice, creamy and low, and feathery. Jongin’s voice. It wasn’t Jongin. It was in German too. Jongin doesn’t know German.

If he went back home, he didn’t take with him what they brought. Not that any of them are necessities. But how could he leave empty handed like that.

He must’ve arrived safely. He must’ve.

Chanyeol wants to know. Jongin usually sent him a text of having arrived safely, wherever he went. To work every morning. Chanyeol couldn’t even start focusing on his own job until the little text from Jongin arrived.

There is nothing in his inbox. Nothing to assure him.

How is he doing. Did the jet lag wear off yet.

And he can’t know any of this. He can’t ask him any of this.

But he wants to know. He _has_ to know. He misses him. Too much.

He opens Instagram. Blocked. Blocked. He’s blocked everywhere. Because he asked to be.

And he can’t see anything.

He gets up. He will go after him. Just to what. Just to see him. See him having arrived safely, having eaten, not being stressed, being fine. Chanyeol needs to see that. He doesn’t want anything else. But to see him. And be there for him. And take care of him.

He makes steps towards the door, barefoot. His socks are drying in the bathroom. Where is he going sockless.

He stops right in front of the door.

He wants to see him. While he still loves him. Ask him to love him back again.

Which he can’t.

 

 

 

 

“I’m working, which you’re not, when you should be,” Junmyeon says when he accepts the call.

“I _am_ working,” Chanyeol retorts. He’s cleaning some more. More sandwich wrappers binned. At least he tried another kind this time. Chicken and pickles.

He’s looking for a place to put the clean clothes. Back into the valise. He could put them in the dresser. But why put them in the dresser when it’s not his dresser.

He picks up other trinkets, and puts them in another place, which is not their place either. He’s been doing this in circles for a while, until he realized it’s not working because none of these things belong in this room at all. Including Chanyeol.

“Ohhh,” Junmyeon drawls, sarcastic. “Are you?”

“I’m cleaning, which you’re not, when you should be.” He sits on the carpet at the foot of the bed, gathering his legs – always gathering them, before they run away from him. The carpet is rough. Doesn’t matter.

Silence from the other end. A few papers rustling in the background. “Did you call me just to be rude to me?” he huffs, forged indignation layered thick over it. Chanyeol smiles.

“No.”

“Then why did you call?”

Chanyeol climbs into the bed. He has all his clothes back yet he’s not wearing any. Because nothing can stop him from being naked right now. “I don’t know?”

It suddenly turns sombre, clouds gathering atop their heads. One for Chanyeol, one for him, tied to their pinky with a string like a balloon, never to be lost.

“How about because you miss me?”

“I miss you.” He goes under the covers. They’re made of rocks. “And Jongin.”

The rustling stops. Junmyeon stops. He has no idea what time it is. He forgot if Junmyeon is forward or backward. He’s forward. No. Backward. Nine hours backward. Or was it eight ahead.

“I miss you too,” Junmyeon replies.

“And Jongin? Does he miss me too?” He just buries himself into the sheets. They whip him.

“I miss you enough for both,” he says, mellow. He’s avoiding the question. Chanyeol should ask if he saw him. He must know how he is then. If he arrived okay. If he’s there at all. And if not, where is he, just _where_ is he.

He turns in bed, to be whipped on the other side too. At least it should be even, bloody slashes everywhere.

“I just bought a few more days,” he says instead.

The relief is audible on the other side even without Junmyeon saying anything. This is a stressful position for him – to be the only possible intermediary in this mess. Chanyeol should be a little kinder.

“How many?”

“Five.”

“Do they have spa and stuff there? There isn’t a time when a professional massage wouldn’t be welcome.”

“I don’t know. I didn’t check.”

“Do you want to check?”

“No.”

“Yes you do,” Junmyeon retorts, like Chanyeol didn’t say anything at all. “You’re going to go get that broad back of yours massaged right now.” There is no room for argument in his tone.

Chanyeol snorts. “Do you have a crush on my back or something?”

“Yes.”

This reminds him of someone. Someone who recently admitted to having had a crush on him. Baekhyun. So people do like him. There is something likeable about him. It’s just that Jongin—

“I’ll go,” he promises. This session of bloodletting under the sheets is becoming unpleasurable.

“You better!” Junmyeon orders.

The call ends. Chanyeol gets up from the bed to grab some clothes. He picks up a shirt and a pair of pants. He unfolds them.

And doesn’t put them on. Chanyeol just goes back into the bed, under the rocks.

 

 

 

 

At some point, Chanyeol goes out. It’s night-time. He’s hungry, but it must be of another kind, for he passes by a myriad bakeries and restaurants and doesn’t want to stop by any. His stomach grumbles. Or it might be another organ entirely.

He drags himself on lymphatic legs across paved road. They feel stiff, calcified. Slowly, he begins sprinting. The streets are full, and are empty, some people shout after him, then there is only the thud of his footsteps, heavy. He runs. Not by foot. Not by wing. Not by wheel. Not by will. But he runs, wherever there is a way to go, he just goes.

He stops, out of breath, coughing his lungs into his palms. He looks around. No people. It’s drizzling, a fine sieving of droplets, and it’s cool enough for his breath to fog in front of his mouth. The moon is high in the sky, big, missing just a sliver from being full.

Chanyeol doesn’t know where he is. There is a name put on a building, but that doesn’t mean anything to him.

He turns around and follows the path he came from. He remembers little of it – all these streets look the same, and if there are any landmarks that stuck with him, they are not in order.

His phone is in his room, dead under the bed. He sees people, and almost approaches them for directions, but his tongue is but a knot in his mouth.

Chanyeol pulls the hood of his jacket over his head, and he wanders. He just wanders, seemingly the whole night. The moon is still going up, higher and higher. It hasn’t hit heaven yet.

At last, he finds himself in front of the hotel.

It isn’t what he was looking for.

 

 

 

 

“Bloomsbury 312, is that you?”

Chanyeol rolls over, getting close to the phone on the nightstand. That’s not the voice of the receptionist. And it’s in Korean. “Yes.”

“What do I gotta do to get your personal phone number instead of calling a landline which costs, like, a lot?”

Chanyeol is bleary. He just woke up from his nap. Or series of naps. He doesn’t remember ever being awake.

“Ugh, ask for it?”

“Very well. I will. In half hour, at Champignon, which is that little restaurant right across the street from where you are.”

That’s not even a proposal. He’s being bossed around. Chanyeol has just a bit of fight in him, before that withdraws, and he is ready to be a marionette in Baekhyun’s hands.

“I’ll be there.”

Champignon. Chanyeol’s eaten there before. With Jongin. More than once, because it really is that close.

He doesn’t have to get dressed. He slept in yesterday’s clothes. Which are good enough.

It takes him less than half an hour to arrive in front of Champignon. He stays by the entrance, watching people go by. He should recognize Baekhyun easier now, even though, as he tries to recall his face, the picture is filmy.

“Good afternoon,” says Baekhyun, spat out by the crowd right in front of Chanyeol. Chanyeol doesn’t even have the time to register his presence before Baekhyun has already turned to walk inside.

The eatery is small – the entire space visible from the entrance – and usually busy. They serve some things here that makes them pretty sought after. Now it’s not so bad, and Baekhyun spots a table easily.

Chanyeol follows him, and takes a seat opposite him. He’s wearing a turtleneck and blazer again. But different ones, a bit more textured, more vibrant. Just as modish. Consistent.

“Good afternoon,” Chanyeol replies.

Baekhyun smiles as he’s taking his phone out of his pocket and putting it on the table, off to the side. “Good afternoon,” he repeats. The one outside doesn’t count anymore.

The waiter greets them too, which Chanyeol doesn’t even get to return before he leaves, a menu for each of them laid on the table.

Baekhyun opens it at once, at a specific page, spots something and then closes it. He puts it at the edge of the table, then lowers his chin into his hand and stares at Chanyeol.

Chanyeol huffs. Normally he would be mildly self-conscious. He doesn’t even know what he looks like. When he last washed his hair, when he last washed his face. He knows for a fact his shirt is very wrinkled. But so what.

He opens the menu. Entrees, appetizers, soups, pasta, sandwiches, pizza, grill. He flips through pages and pages.

“Their burger is really good, but just good for the tongue, not for this,” he says, patting his tummy. There seems to be no excess there, his turtleneck transitioning smoothly into the waistband of his slacks – not jeans this time, a cleaner cut. He didn’t think Baekhyun would evolve to have this kind of style – he was rugged comfy, oversized hand-me downs from his older brother, shoes worn until they’ve fallen apart and scarified with memories. This is a bit too smart.

“I’ll take it,” Chanyeol replies, immediately shutting the menu too. He puts it over Baekhyun’s, at the edge of the table.

Baekhyun immediately signs for the waiter. So he’s not the kind to just wait around for that.

“House salad, no cucumbers, and a glass of whatever red wine you can get your hands on,” he cheeps, smiley.

When the waiter looks towards him, Chanyeol asks for the burger. And water. He puts a thank you at the end, though he doesn’t quite get the hang of the ‘thank’ and it sounds more like ‘tank’. The waiter grins politely, nonetheless, and pockets his little notepad, promising to be right back with their beverages.

“Not drinking?” Baekhyun asks as soon as the waiter leaves.

“No,” Chanyeol says. “I shouldn’t.” If he drinks, he fears himself. What he will do. What he will think. He has another unopened beer can in his room. And it should stay that way.

“Oh. I get it,” he says, leaning back into the chair.

“Do you?”

“No,” Baekhyun confesses at once, candid. “I was just…assuming. That you don’t do well with alcohol in general.”

In general. No. That’s not true. Chanyeol has always handled it well. Part of it has ripened because of his job, where drinking is a type of currency, of bribery, of kissassery.

“I just don’t do well with it…now,” Chanyeol corrects. And maybe forever, but he doesn’t say that.

Baekhyun’s gaze on him quells, becoming of a palliative quality. Chanyeol, for whatever reason, shies away from it.

Just then, their drinks come.

Water and wine, in the same kind of glass. Baekhyun sips his – the same procedure as when he sipped the coffee, an itty-bitty sip at first, a moan, pure pornography, then a whole mouthful. Chanyeol nearly feels like doing the same to his water. But it’s just water. Bedecked with a sprig of mint and a slice of lime, but still water. He sips it anyway.

“While glad I met you, it wasn’t the most pleasant happenstance. You didn’t even remember me. And I danced on you.” His eyebrows twitch teasingly. “You really were _that_ drunk.”

Chanyeol, right now, doesn’t want to think about that night. What happened, how he was, what he did.

“I was,” he agrees. “I really don’t remember much at all. And I don’t intend to drink like that again.”

Baekhyun doesn’t say anything. His gaze is persistent, without hardening at all. Chanyeol reads understanding in it, though it might be in the wrong language. Whatever it is, he doesn’t feel like shying away.

The waiter brings their food. A big bowl of salad for Baekhyun, and a flat stone with wedges, a sauce, and a burger for Chanyeol.

It looks really good. Chanyeol isn’t hungry.

But Baekhyun is, because he dips his fork into the bowl and chomps on a few veggies before he even adds a few spoonfuls of the dressing into it. He mixes it haphazardly.

Chanyeol chews on a potato wedge. Because it’s there. It tastes like a potato wedge. He takes another one.

Baekhyun focuses on him again once he’s had a few bites. He really must be famished.

“But did that,” he frowns, rucola leaf poking out of his mouth. “Did it cross any bounds in your commitment?” He chews in short chomps, rabbity.

Chanyeol doesn’t get it. What bounds, what commitment, what—

 _Oh_.

Did Chanyeol cheat. Was whatever happened with Baekhyun considered cheating.

While he doesn’t remember what happened – and _still_ , he doesn’t want to know – the fact that he was too drunk to care about anything but his own anguish doesn’t excuse him. Was he really the one who betrayed at last.

Chanyeol feels like laughing. But he doesn’t. 

Because it doesn’t matter anymore. It doesn’t matter how Chanyeol sees it – it would matter how Jongin sees it. But that doesn’t matter anymore either. Because they aren’t anything now.

“No need to think about that,” Chanyeol says. He dips a wedge into the sauce. Still a potato wedge, but with sauce. He prefers it without.

“ _Thank god_ ,” Baekhyun says, expressly relieved. “I’m trying pretty hard not to cause trouble.” He picks his wine glass. He takes a big mouthful. Drinks it like juice. It’s cute. And annoying. At the same time. He even gurgles it a little. Even more annoying. And cuter. And expected – it’s a behaviour the thirteen-year-old Baekhyun would do.

“Oh, but are you really like a…” Chanyeol isn’t sure what word to use. What’s too much. What’s too little. What’s polite. What’s offensive. And what if in his presumption that it can be offensive at all, it is _already_ offensive. “Stripper?” he settles, voice tiny.

It doesn’t quite fit, but he doesn’t know what other term to use. He just knows Baekhyun wasn’t quite like the other people in that club.

Baekhyun blinks at him. Once. Twice. “Yep,” he replies, taking one big forkful, maw opened wide to fit all of it in. “And right now I’m making more of this body, so I have what to sell,” he says, chewing loudly. Both repelling and impressive.

The cherry tomatoes, the tiger tomatoes, the chopped, boiled eggs, the rucola. A food chain, a commercial food chain, a business of the flesh.

“Selling my body is quite profitable, you know. I recommend it. Don’t even need a degree for it.” He dips a crouton into Chanyeol’s sauce, and plops it into his mouth.

Chanyeol thinks about it. A body could be an infinite resource, as long as it’s functional.

“Look at me not missing a single piece,” Baekhyun adds, this time stealing a wedge and dipping it in the sauce. An exclamation of delight later, he steals another one. A daytime thief.  

Chanyeol looks at Baekhyun’s hands. They’re hands. Are they eroded into shrubs by touches upon touches.

Chanyeol picks at the burger with his fork. He picks a strand of caramelized onion. He can tell it was helped with sugar.

“How much does one gram of Baekhyun cost?” Is that the metric of it. Maybe it’s in square centimetres. Or cubic centimetres. There must be a standard way of measuring it.

“To keep for good?” Baekhyun contemplates, wine glass to his lips.

“I’d just…rent it. Not keep it for good.” Are people cheaper than gold. Probably not. But there must be people who are cheaper than gold too. Fairness is not universal.

Baekhyun is yet again quiet. He is mercurial, inconstant. His loudness too loud, his silence too silent. The in-betweens staggeringly, violently raw, affectionate, soul in an eye, and heart in the other.

Chanyeol, frankly, doesn’t care that much about him. He feels desensitised. He could care, had he not been in the state that he is. Chanyeol has plenty of childhood friendships that were lost, and he doesn’t particularly fancy rekindling many of them. The one he had with Baekhyun isn’t different, but what set it apart was the fact that it was almost exclusive – when he was friends with Baekhyun, in winter and summer vacations, when his parents sent him to live with his grandmother and help her around, and Baekhyun was in the same situation – he was _only_ friends with Baekhyun. So it was exclusive. When they were friends, they didn’t have any other friends, and when they weren’t friends, they never contacted each other.

Now Chanyeol is just a bit suspicious. And he asked about money too, the last time. If his job is _fancy_. Maybe he’s high on potato wedges and badly caramelized onions.

“Are you looking for some sort of…sugar daddy?” he questions. The algorithm to reach this conclusion might be fallacious, but it’s all he has.

He cuts into the burger. Fork and knife. Maybe this one will be free of psychedelics.

“Oh my god, _no_.” He washes his laughter down with more wine. “I’m kidding,” he bursts after putting the glass down, immediately covering his mouth.

“About…which part?” Chanyeol stammers, dumbfounded.

“All of it. Save for the part when I danced on you, if you don’t remember. I really did do that.”

“In shorts? And glitter?” Chanyeol squints into empty air, as if that would make the memory clearer. But he remembers that. It was eye-catching. There was no one else in that club with glitter on them.

“Yes.” He can’t stab the greenery in his bowl with the fork, so he picks it up with his fingers. “You see, when I wild, I like to go all the way. Unleash the inner strumpet?” Another cherry tomato, followed by a cube of mozzarella, this time with the fork. “But I’m not an official, certified strumpet, no.”

“Then you’re an official, certified…what?” Because Chanyeol told him what he is. Not an astronaut. And Baekhyun is not a singer, but he didn’t tell what he is either.

“I kind of like you thinking I’m an actual stripper. Should I even tell you what I am for real anymore?” he says, as to himself, to his last bite of salad. He left a crouton at the end. He really likes the croutons. Crunchy. Baekhyun smiles, pleased, then picks up the napkin to dab at his mouth.

Chanyeol doesn’t respond. He’s curious now. Truly curious. But he doesn’t want to voice it. He bites into the burger. It’s good. Like a burger.

Baekhyun smacks his lips, then picks up the wine glass. He downs it all in one mouthful. The light gurgling again.

“I’m a Korean English professor,” he says, lips red, teeth pink. “I teach both, but mostly Korean, of course. At SOAS, which is pretty close to here. I’m sure you passed by it a couple of times.”

There are many universities around. He’s seen students. It’s full.

“That’s pretty far from a singer,” Chanyeol says. He cuts more of the burger. Too much. He stuffs it all in his mouth like that.

“And a stripper,” Baekhyun adds, amusement shining in his eyes.

“Do you like it?” he asks around his mouthful. So what if that’s gross.

Chanyeol doesn’t particularly like what he does. But he does it because he’s good at it. Because he didn’t quite fit in any other field. And at last, he really doesn’t have to like it. He only has to be okay with doing it, which he is.

But he wonders, from time to time, what that’s like - to actually be fond of your occupation.

“Have you met college students?” Baekhyun asks, almost incredulous. “They’re the essence of rowdiness. Which in turn, is the essence of youth. It’s like childhood for a lifetime.”

Chanyeol thinks back to his university years. All of his professors seemed miserable. Maybe some less than others, but they still fit within that spectrum.

Baekhyun is maybe another species entirely. He has finished his salad, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. Chanyeol only ate half his food. Baekhyun can have his wedges. He pushes the plate towards him.

“If you like it,” Chanyeol says.

“I do.”

“I’m glad.” Because he is. He doesn’t know why it pleases him to know, and to see, that Baekhyun seems to enjoy the path he chose, the life he’s leading.

“Thanks,” Baekhyun replies. He already took three wedges. Sauce, no sauce, sauce.

Chanyeol bites into his burger. They’re silent again.

Chanyeol goes from not hungry, to even less hungry, and this is when he dabs his lips clean too, and reaches for his water. Now it’s mildly infused with the lime and the mint. It doesn’t taste just like water water. He likes it.

Baekhyun smiles. Baekhyun’s face is doing other things other than smiling too, but it is usually, primarily smiling.

Chanyeol can’t tell what about this is smile-worthy. He can’t bring himself to mirror it.

He pushes the plate away.

“Next time we’ll try another place,” Baekhyun says, quickly beckoning the waiter, eye contact supplemented with a grin. “You didn’t really like it here.”

“I don’t really like it anywhere,” Chanyeol amends.

“You will,” Baekhyun replies, waving the heft of Chanyeol’s words as though they held no meaning. He reaches for his bag, which he put on the seat next to his. It’s a little across the chest bag, not too small, not too big, sporty – unlike everything else he’s wearing. Instead of clashing, it fits. He brings his wallet out. In the bag, Chanyeol sees a book. Another book.

The waiter comes with the check. Baekhyun choses to pay with his card.

Chanyeol doesn’t have his wallet, just all his bills thrown together in his back pocket. He brings the stash out. But by the time he counts the bills, Baekhyun is already given the receipt in his hand.

And he paid for everything.

“Never thought your phone number would be free,” Baekhyun says, getting up. His chair scrapes.

“No,” Chanyeol protests. “You’re not doing this.”

The coffee. And now this. Just why would Baekhyun pay for him.

Baekhyun is still smiling. He puts his bag on his shoulder.

“Is this the last time we’re meeting?” he asks. “If it is, then you can pay me back now.”

What does _last_ even mean. It means forever. Or maybe they’ll see each other in another fifteen years, and Chanyeol will pay off his debt to him then.

But he’s not leaving this place now. Not today. Not tomorrow. So it might not be their last meeting.

“If not,” Baekhyun continues. “Please, your number.” He stretches his phone towards Chanyeol, opened on the dial.

They’ll meet again. Chanyeol will pay him back.

He puts in his number, but doesn’t save it.

“Oh. It’s Korean. You really aren’t here to stay, huh,” he says once Chanyeol gives the phone back.

Chanyeol wants to agree. But he can’t. maybe he is here to stay.

“No problem, there is kakao. Your ID?”

Baekhyun gives him the phone back to input the ID as his contact name. Chanyeol does that too, on autopilot.

“Now I can totally harvest you to be my sugar daddy,” he says, glancing at the screen before pocketing the phone. His smile is wide with the kindest cynicism. “Or _baby_?”

Chanyeol elbows him. He smiles too, not wide.

Baekhyun takes it, giggles, and makes to exist the restaurant. Their little escapade is over. They stop in front of the entrance.

“Would you like to have this? I just finished it. Quite an interesting take on the aftermath of war?” Baekhyun asks, taking out the book from his bag. Chanyeol looks at the cover. In the title, there is a word he doesn’t know.

He takes it.

“I hope you’ll like it,” Baekhyun chirps, dimples abloom. “Gotta go now. See ya,” he waves, already turning around, and disappearing behind a corner.

Does he always leave like this. Like he steps into inexistence the moment he’s out of Chanyeol’s sight.

 

 

 

 

Chanyeol is afraid of words that come from behind scarves. He’s afraid of smiles hidden behind scarves. He’s afraid of carrots. He’s afraid of donuts.

How is a breakup so dismantling. How does it reach so far. And when will it shrink, when will it take all these fears away from Chanyeol.

He feels grimy. Stale. Abandoned. That’s the word. For he was truly abandoned. He thought he prepared for this too. But he didn’t. He thought about the breakup. He thought, too much, a lot, so, _so_ much just about the breakup, but not about what comes after. About Jongin’s absence. The life without him. Just the gaps left. The missing.

But not of himself.

His optimism is at fault – a breakup is no big deal. It truly, fundamentally, is not a big deal. Love comes and goes, all the time. It’s cyclical. Some people love over and over, and break up over and over.

Chanyeol thought that if he saw it coming for so long, it wouldn’t feel quite like this. He would’ve gone back to Seoul with Jongin. He would’ve woken up to him still there, and they would’ve left together, their belongings in the same suitcase, sitting next to each other on the plane. An amicable approach. No more touching, no more pretend intimacy. But civil. Friendly. Okay.

It should’ve been like that.

But it’s not.

And Chanyeol doesn’t know what he would like to feel. He would like to feel nothing, he would like to feel something.

He would like to not love Jongin anymore. Which he can’t do anything about. Not a second passes that Chanyeol doesn’t think of him. Because if he doesn’t even think of him, he misses him more. Seeing him in his memories, given that they are so fresh, it’s almost, _almost_ , as if he’s seeing him for real.

He condemns himself for feeling this way, for being the way he is. He should be stronger. This should be a positive. New kind of freedom. A new start.

All Chanyeol did today was try passwords.

Passwords that Jongin could’ve picked. He picks things with meaning. And he tries. Nyeolliexnini007. No. He liked that. Playing spies at some point. Nyeollie and Nini.

It’s not that.

The names of his nephew and niece. His own name. His birthdate. Combinations. His licence plate. His favourite brand of fried chicken. Bear. Ninibear94.

He tries, until he’s told that he’s not allowed to try anymore.

Jongin will get a notification for this. That Chanyeol tried to break into his accounts.

And it’s humiliating. It’s utterly, cripplingly humiliating.

 

 

 

 

Chanyeol gets out today. He pays for one more week at the hotel. He fumbles over his words with the receptionist.

He thought he was better at English. Perhaps just hearing it in movies doesn’t guarantee being good at speaking it too. Other times, this would only make his cheeks burn a little, but now he’s just disappointed in himself. He’s stupid as fuck, no wonder Jongin left him.

He walks around, haphazardly taking turns. There are many universities indeed. The Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, University of London, Birkbeck, and then SOAS. He forgot the name Baekhyun gave him. There just are too many. One of them must be it.

He can tell the students apart from the other public. They’re both livelier and deader. Chanyeol cannot think about student life without associating it with Jongin. He only started to love it as he started to love Jongin.

He stays in front of a campus for a few more seconds, then turns around. And walks.

He makes it to the Museum of Egyptian Archaeology. He pays, enters. There is a guide. Chanyeol doesn’t understand much, but enough. He stares at the exhibitions.

When it’s over, he waits outside the door.

Jongin isn’t inside anymore. He doesn’t have to wait for him. Chanyeol is alone. Free to leave.

But he waits. Just a bit more. Maybe Jongin will show up, hurling from the doors into a back hug, excitedly asking Chanyeol to report what he liked best.

He looks behind, at the door. His tour group has vanished completely, a new set of strangers beelining in the lobby.

No Jongin. There isn’t any Jongin.

Chanyeol sighs, and leaves.

 

 

 

 

_Humiliation._

 

 

 

 

Chanyeol is staring at his phone. He wants to text Jongin. When doesn’t he.

But tell him what. Ask him what. He shouldn’t forget to buy milk. Because as addicted as he is to his little cup of vanilla milk in the evening, he’s notoriously good at forgetting to actually buy the milk. Chanyeol always had milk at home for him. He should buy milk. What if he forgot. He might not love Chanyeol anymore, but he surely still loves his vanilla milk.

A text comes, and Chanyeol startles at the loud, cheery kakao notification.

_Payback time?_

It’s all it says. Chanyeol wonders if he has any loan sharks after his ass before realizing that he does. A little shark. A Baekhyun little shark.

 _Where?_ Chanyeol texts back.

 

 

 

 

Chanyeol drinks. Draft beer out of a jar with a handle, in this dingy little bar, wooden tables which seem badly made, splintery and wry, but the beer is good, even when he’s no connoisseur. Baekhyun keeps purposefully giving himself a foamstache. It’s kinda funny. It reminds him of Santa Claus. And Baekhyun’s shirt is red too, tomato red, and his bomber jacket is green, army green. He’s basically a salad. A Santa Claus salad.

Chanyeol might be drunk.

“You’re supervised now,” Baekhyun says, as he clinks the second pint with him. “You can have a little more.”

There aren’t many snacks. Just chips. Crisps, Baekhyun actually said. Because there’s a difference between crisps and chips here? Chanyeol doesn’t know about these things. Anju just aren’t a thing. He thinks some fried chicken would’ve gone well with this beer. But Jongin’s favourite brand doesn’t deliver all the way to the United Kingdom. Unless he asks very, very nicely. But even then—

“Why do you wink so much?” Chanyeol accuses all of a sudden, seeing Baekhyun blink.

“You get flustered,” he replies, with a recomposed giggle. Many people laugh in this establishment, mostly middlescent men with an army of equally middlescent friends. Baekhyun’s giggle, somehow, stands out.

“Why do you giggle so much?”

“You kinda smile when I do.” Another giggle.

Why is this dialogue vaguely reminiscent of Red Riding Hood. Which is basically all the culture Chanyeol has of western literature, and he kind of feels the need to flex on Baekhyun and how much of a bookworm he seems to be. He doesn’t think Little Red Riding Hood references will fare that well in this milieu though, which is vaguely coy, vaguely enticing. But that doesn’t deter him.

“Why are you drinking with me?”

Baekhyun puts two big chips, crisps, chips, crisps in his mouth, and speaks around them. “Because you don’t have anyone else to drink with.”

Chanyeol’s head hangs between his shoulders. He pouts. “You’re mean.”

“But am I wrong?”

“…no.”

Baekhyun laughs. “This is your last pint. Cherish it,” he says, clinking his jar with Chanyeol’s.

Chanyeol cherishes it. By nuzzling into it, a snow globe of foam sprouting on the tip of his nose. Baekhyun laughs. He just keeps laughing.

“Hey, you’re drunk,” Chanyeol realizes.

“No shit, Sherlock,” he says, finishing his beer jar.

He spoke that in English, and Chanyeol doesn’t know that saying, but what he does know is that Baekhyun drank more than him. His face is pink, ripe.

Perhaps his own face is pink too. At least he’s pink with someone. Being pink in two is better than being pink in one.

Then Baekhyun, suddenly, turns really _really_ funny. Chanyeol doesn’t even know what he’s doing, maybe explaining something? Instructions on how to…dance. On someone. And how he danced on other people _wrong_. Chanyeol isn’t sure, but it’s funny as _fuck_ , for some reason.

Jests shoot like bullets from under his tongue. Chanyeol is succumbing to a haemorrhage of giggles.  

“This suits you better than the moping,” Baekhyun says, fixating on Chanyeol’s face, his antics on break.

“I don’t know…how to be like this.” Outside of this instance. Outside this ritzy bar and its jarred beer.

“Surely there are worse things than heartbreak.”

Chanyeol shakes his head, so very resolutely. “Not when it’s all you have.”

“Is this really all you have?”

Chanyeol looks down. A hand on his empty beer jar. The other hand is dirty at the fingertips with powered from the chips, crisps, chips. So he has hands too. And heartbreak. Chanyeol has hands and heartbreak.

“No,” he replies.

“You’ll have more in no time, trust me,” Baekhyun promises. Head in his hand, mouth sober, he sounds like a prophet, and Chanyeol believes him because he has nothing better to do.

“Okay.”

Then they laugh just because the rowdy guys at the table next to theirs burst into laughter, and laughter is contagious, so they laugh.

 

 

 

 

Chanyeol paid for their consummation. Baekhyun isn’t a little shark after his ass anymore. Their fate is all sorted out.

But as soon as they step out of the bar, Baekhyun’s arm hooked around his, he doesn’t want to let go yet.

He looks at Baekhyun. They’re under the neon sign of the bar. Duochrome glaze on his lips, a purple and a yellow, colours that belong together, but don’t belong on skin. The hazy tomfoolery of a night too deep, when inhibitions and judgment are slumbering. Chanyeol is allured.

“Take me somewhere,” he says.

Baekhyun burps into Chanyeol’s shoulder. “Where?”

“Anywhere.”

 

 

 

 

The anywhere turns out to be Baekhyun’s apartment. It must be, because he has a key, which he inserts into the keyhole, and the door opens. So this is Baekhyun’s place.

Chanyeol steps in after him. It’s an apartment. With rooms. It has a floor and a ceiling and walls.

Baekhyun puts his workbag on the couch. Because he met him right after work, right. Chanyeol sits next to it on the couch. He has a small pencil case in there. Chanyeol opens it. He feels the strong urge to take each pen and marker and doodle on something. And he does, doodling on himself. He writes Jongin’s name. Nini. Jonini.

“I leave you alone for a second, and you end up vandalizing yourself,” Baekhyun says, suddenly reappearing into the picture. He has a glass of water in his hand. Chanyeol wants it. And luckily, _amazingly_ , Baekhyun gives it to him.

“To bed with you, now,” Baekhyun orders, still laughingly, making to take him by the ear. He just touches it, doesn’t grab, doesn’t pull, and Chanyeol lumbers after him.

They made it to a bed. The bed at Baekhyun’s room. In his apartment. Where he lives. By himself.

Chanyeol sinks into the mattress. He’s not tipsy anymore. He’s more sleepy. And giggly. Baekhyun is so fun. How is Baekhyun so much _fun_. What even is he doing to be so much fun. Chanyeol doesn’t _understand_.

Baekhyun is kind of on top of him. And laughing as he’s trying to get Chanyeol to lay properly in bed – _not diagonally, you’re not the only one who has to sleep here_. Chanyeol shimmies into the sheets, guided by Baekhyun, until he’s pleased with his position.

“Finally,” he sighs laughingly.

Chanyeol feels proud. He managed to lay properly in a bed. Isn’t that _fantastic_.

Baekhyun pinches his cheek. “Good boy.” It hurts, but Chanyeol likes it.

There is nothing else to do now. They’re in bed, but what’s to be done next is unclear. Maybe sleep, but as sleepy as they are, as dark as the night is, they don’t want to sleep yet.

The laughter dies down. He calms. He’s sober. Chanyeol is sober, just unhinged, just…hurt. The gaping in him begins hollering, begins tugging. Chanyeol feels incomplete. And purposeless. It’s not that he had a purpose before. But now he’s too free. He’s unbound, when he got used to the fetters, to the belts. He’s moving forward, when he got used to the boulders tied to his feet.

He’s free. And wanting. And needing. And Baekhyun is just trying to undo his little bowtie. A real bowtie, which has to be tied and stuff, not a clip on, not a stick on. A bowtie for the big boys.

He beings untying it. Jongin wore those too, because his sense of fashion leaned in this direction – a bit more classical, elegant, masculine staples combined with feminine ones. Chanyeol only knows how to tie one because of Jongin. And he also knows how to undo it.

“Lemme be useful,” he mutters, swatting Baekhyun’s hands away. He makes quick work of it, then pulls it out from around his collar. Then he just stays with it in his hand. “Say thank you.”

“Thank you,” Baekhyun complies, smiling. His smile is pretty.

He reaches for Chanyeol’s collar in turn. He doesn’t wear a bowtie, but he did button his shirt all the way this time. Baekhyun undoes the top two buttons. He didn’t realize there was pressure around his windpipe.

“Say thank you.”

“Thank you.”

Baekhyun smiles again. Pretty. It’s just. Pretty. Stretched lips. Stretched pink lips.

And Chanyeol just. Wants something. Anything. Maybe this. He wants this. Right now.

He doesn’t know how to ask. How to ask exactly what he needs. He needs words. Questions are usually made of words. But he doesn’t find any.

Baekhyun undoes the top two buttons of his own shirt. Chanyeol looks at the little triangle of revealed skin. That’s pretty, too.

Chanyeol whines in his throat, low, his own ears not hearing it. He takes his hand out from the tangle of the sheets, and brings it towards his face. He presses his pointer and index to his lips. He imprints them slightly with their shape, their dampness, and then turns the fingers around. He places them Baekhyun’s lips.

“Oh, what is this?” Baekhyun asks, eyes round, totally knowing what this is. Chanyeol’s fingers are no longer in contact with Baekhyun’s lips, but they’re there, his arm equipoising nearby, not coming back towards himself, not going after Baekhyun.

Chanyeol doesn’t reply.

Baekhyun smiles. Chanyeol already knows a few. The no lip smile, just the peaks of his cupid’s bow afloat a willowy, pink parenthesis, dimples, and an abundance of cheek – for when he’s trying to be cute – _Isn’t that like a favour to you? I’m cute when I’m cute. And everyone likes cute._

Quick, he leans in, just to press his lips to Chanyeol’s fingers _._

“Did I do it right?” he asks, wink in tow.

“No.” Chanyeol lets his hand down. It falls to his chest with a plop – an estranged limb.

Baekhyun is still on top of him. Thighs on either side of Chanyeol’s hips, ass on the tops of his thighs. He’s comfy. He’s made himself a nest in Chanyeol’s lap, periodically wiggling, diving himself just a little father into his flesh.

Chanyeol now whines aloud.

Baekhyun speaks before he gets to finish his whine. “I bet you we would’ve done this had we met one more summer.”

“Do what?” Chanyeol is suddenly not following.

Baekhyun titters. “Kiss,” he says, tittery kiss. That sounds…good. Chanyeol wants that. “Experiment. You’re the first boy I ever wanted to kiss.”

Chanyeol stares. Baekhyun has bent down over him. He’s close. His face is close. Maybe he was the first boy Chanyeol wanted to kiss too. He doesn’t remember. It’s all buried under his want to kiss Jongin. He wishes he could kiss Jongin now. But Jongin wouldn’t kiss back. Jongin hasn’t kissed back for a long time. Chanyeol doesn’t remember wanting to kiss anyone other than Jongin.

But in his lap isn’t Jongin. It’s Baekhyun. Smiling. Leaning in. Pretty, pretty lips.

“We can do it now too,” he says, and then tilts his head back, and puckers up, for he really wants it, and he doesn’t know how to be more forward about it.

Baekhyun leans in even closer. That aroma of his that Chanyeol can’t quite place. Quintessentially floral, but so much so that it’s almost tart. But he doesn’t kiss him.

“I have plenty of experience now.”

Chanyeol deflates. That’s a no, isn’t it. It’s a total no. Of course. He can’t just ask people to kiss him. Why would they agree. Had he been asked, the very same way, he wouldn’t do it.

Baekhyun’s hand touches his face. It’s soft. Unlike how the side of a hand should be – too soft, as though the skin is thin, unworked. But it is worked, Chanyeol can tell.

“Though one can never get too much of it,” he continues, quieter. His timber changed. It’s low, completely losing its default fray. Seems to be a depth it rarely dives into. “But aren’t you just asking me to take advantage of you?”

Because Chanyeol is vulnerable. Tender. He knows. But that’s not bad. So what if his need for this is not for conventional, or _right_ reasons. It’s still there. Undoubted.

“Does that mean you want it, too?” he says, started as a question and ended as a statement. Maybe he has the same empty need Chanyeol does. Everyone needs a kiss from time to time. They could do this. Taking advantage of each other. Making use of each other. And Baekhyun is in his lap anyway.

His expression is sober. Meditative. Ponderous.

Then they’re kissing.

Chanyeol melts. He really melts, under Baekhyun’s softness, his curiosity, but also his taking, as though Baekhyun is looking to prove him something, and is also looking just to enjoy himself.

It’s a disinventing kiss, one that takes apart the affordances of his self, from belief, to sensation, to cravings, to resolutions. Chanyeol responds, with an eagerness he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. Baekhyun matches that eagerness, delves into Chanyeol just as much as Chanyeol delves into it. Why it feels like Baekhyun actually wants him. Baekhyun, who doesn’t want him.

Chanyeol kissed other people before, but too long ago, so he really only knows Jongin. Save for Junmyeon who once kissed him on an _unforeseen gay whim_ to Chanyeol’s utter discombobulation, Jongin falling into chuckles so thin and consonant he was a little nightingale, until Junmyeon shut him up with a kiss too - _Now you’re even. And maybe I’m a little gay._

But that was it, just the impulsivity Junmyeon had once, a joke more than sincerity, which felt like nothing.

And now Baekhyun. Who has just gotten comfortable, who is dipping his tongue into his mouth, hand underneath Chanyeol’s collar. Chanyeol’s hips jerk, and Baekhyun bites down on his lip.

This is when Chanyeol tips over, and wants more. He doesn’t know what more, but he just wants to yield. He doesn’t want to put effort, to be the one grasping – because even though it was Jongin who dug his fingers into him, it was always, always Chanyeol who was actually clinging – but he’s not now. He doesn’t have to be.

“You were taught well,” Baekhyun says, licking his lips, as though after eating something good. Chanyeol was that good thing. Praise. Chanyeol loves praise. Jongin hasn’t given him any for a long time. He gave him the opposite. Reproaches. I don’t like your voice anymore. I don’t want to kiss you anymore. And the non-verbal ones. When he touched him. When he was nearby. Too close, too often.

He brings his arms over his head, wrists against each other. He peers at Baekhyun. Asks one more thing.

Baekhyun stares back. His kissed lips are pretty. The swollenness. The redness. The slickness. It’s stark. An inflammation through it all, as though his mouth is not quite accustomed to them. Dainty. Delicate. Chanyeol wants to kiss it again.

“Are you giving yourself to me?” he asks.

“Have me,” Chanyeol just says.

“How much.”

“However much you’d like.”

Baekhyun grinds down. Their position itself is lewd – misleading, or rightleading, something – emphasizing the connection they have there. It’s cock on cock, fabrics in between.

“Yes,” Chanyeol says.

Sex. They should have sex. If Baekhyun wants to. Chanyeol does too. He’s just used to it. He’s used to have it daily. Which is what makes wanting it so easy for him.

“Are you into this?” he asks.

Domination. Not a lot of it. Not by what the scriptures say. But being the one in control. Just Chanyeol not having to think. Just whatever level he would like to have the upper hand. Chanyeol thinks he does, even though everyday behaviour rarely translates into sexual conduit and preference. But maybe. Just maybe.

“Yeah,” Baekhyun breathes, grinding harder, hot, actual hotness, like capsaicin, or fire, all on Chanyeol’s skin. “You’re so needy right now. I want to take care of you.”

Chanyeol just says, “Please.” Not like a begging. But like a deal – the seal on the document of their agreement.

And so they kiss again. They touch again.

But this time, they reach for the skin underneath clothes too, and Chanyeol lets himself be taken apart, bolts unscrewed.

Overlapping forgetteries, when Chanyeol has no past anymore, doesn’t remember anything anymore, and just goes forward, from this point on, this moment on, this kiss on, and feels anew. Having sex that isn’t just an enactment of grief.

Because Chanyeol truly doesn’t remember the last time he felt arousal. When it was unadulterated.

What he had with Jongin, for the past year, wasn’t it. That was just a fight against deadness. It was a demand to feel more than he could feel. Feel the most, the best, that could be felt. Not enjoy it, but making sure it’s there, developing, keeping the anchors buried.

But like this, it’s casual. It’s wondrous. Clumsiness, for these are lips he only met a few minutes ago, not a decade, and they’re receptive, seeking, a game and a pamper.

Baekhyun brings out the lube and the condoms. He has them nearby, pulled out from the drawer of the bed frame

He likes this. The thought of Baekhyun being active, having over partner. Regularly. It’s attractive. If this was with someone else – someone who also presented romantic interest – he would’ve disliked it. Some sort of jealousy, unreasonable discomfort towards ample sexual history.

But as Baekhyun rips the wrapper of the condom with his teeth, his other hand slick inside him, not desisting for a second, Chanyeol knows he asked for the right thing, that he’s doing the right thing for himself.

 

 

 

 

“Do you smoke?” Baekhyun asks, turning the pack towards him, one cigarette jutted out. They’re thin, rachitic twigs of tobacco.

“No,” Chanyeol replies, walking the plank, and taking it. “Do you?”

“No,” Baekhyun says, alighting a match. Matches, not even a lighter. He huddles into the sulphuric cloud around it as Baekhyun lights his own, and beckons Chanyeol to light his too, all with the same stick.

The cigarette is flavoured with something. Florid, vernal. Interesting. 

They’re leaning against the rail of the small balcony attached to the kitchen. Wrought iron, and the crumbly, wooden balustrade. Chanyeol picks at a splinter with his finger.

The wind blows a little, and the open shirt Chanyeol has on flutters. Baekhyun only has a bathrobe on, the cordon in a weak tie. His chest is exposed too.

They don’t have an ashtray, only tipping the ash down to the street. Second floor. Middle floor. The buildings here are so low.

“Why here?” Chanyeol asks. It leaves a film of grime on the roof of his mouth and his teeth. It’s nasty. He takes another drag.

Baekhyun looks over again, gaze flittering between the smoke of his cigarette and Chanyeol. He smiles. This was an impending topic.

“Because it’s far,” Baekhyun says. “Not the farthest because then it would be too close. It’s far enough.”

Half a day away. Ten thousand kilometres. Seas and mountains and feelings. Pretty far.

“Are you hiding from someone?”

“Yeah, the Interpol,” he says though a snort. Chanyeol still believes him, because maybe the thought of Baekhyun being a criminal on the run is just a bit thrilling. “Maybe you’ll help me with the trial.”

“I’m expensive,” Chanyeol tsks. He looks at the cigarette. He can get two more big drags out of it, or three small. Or four. He goes for four. Another coating of ash.

“And I have this cock right here that you seemed to enjoy a lot. Will that do, Mister Park?” he says, parting his legs just a bit so the hump of his penis pronounces through the fabric of his underwear. He pats it, twice, before he stares Chanyeol down.

Chanyeol laughs. This kind of ever-present, incensing, unapologetically vulgar humour. Maybe too bold. Maybe that’s just how he is, and not a side feature – not something only brought out when he has to do some impression management. Delightful. Very much so. Like caricaturized confidence, dressed down in its birthday suit.

Baekhyun laughs too. Self-aware. Not hehehes – those are for special occasions – but the profound chest laugh.  

Chanyeol doesn’t have to ask further – the joke drops by itself, and Baekhyun continues. “The rhythm here is different. Not saying it’s better. Or worse. Just a bit freer. A bit… _Selfish_.” He peers at the cigarette. It’s finished now. Not enough there for another drag. But it still has a few seconds till it burns to the filter. “I like being selfish now. Having things only to myself. Doing them only for myself. At least compared to how it is at home.”

Chanyeol knows exactly what he’s talking about. He finishes his cigarette too. Three drags, two portioned from a partition of four, and then just a big one.

Chanyeol was called selfish. For what he had with Jongin. It was impossible for those close to him to not find out – Chanyeol didn’t want to hide it anyway – and while they also had the time to come to terms with it, which they did, it was never quite there. This, amongst other things, made him feel constrained in some way. Or like he was a rebel. And he tried to make up for it. Be the perfect son, and worker, and then boyfriend – though for another man. Why this perfectness mattered so much. Why he personally cared for it. He doesn’t know.

So he understands Baekhyun. “I see,” he replies. Baekhyun can tell it’s not empty – he sees too. It’s impossible not to.

“Though it makes it a little lonely. The kind of lonely I am here is different from the kind of lonely I’m at home. There I’m lonely cause I don’t have myself, here I’m lonely because I don’t have anyone else. Not that I mind it much.” Pause. For a touch of self-deprecation. “I guess.”

There. And here. It’s the same concrete. Less fine dust – he doesn’t have to wear a mask. Names are different. A cultural blend too, where he sees a few more skin tones, eye colours, hair textures, clothes and foods.

“I just like being far now. Japan would’ve been too close. Anywhere in Asia, I think, would be too close. Even eastern Europe.” A few particles of ash fly away. “And America felt too close. But here, at the edge of North-Western Europe, it feels far enough.”

He takes the cigarette butt form Chanyeol. Since there is no ashtray. He puts them back in the pack – neither of them want to get up right now.

“And the people who know me here, who recognize me here, don’t bother to recall me for good. I’m a temporary stay. I know I’m a temporary stay. So it’s easier. To do what I want.”

“I think us being here now is the very contradiction of that,” Chanyeol says.

“Ah,” Baekhyun exclaims, pointed as a hiccough. Fresh realization. He turns toward Chanyeol, the hand in his hair massaging slightly. “Does that really count though?” He pulls, then he lets go of the strands. “Do we really know each other?”

No. They don’t. The last they saw each other was maybe sixteen years ago. That’s half a life. That makes them unknown. The vestiges of their connection long gone, blown into the wind just like the ash.

“Maybe not,” Chanyeol acquiesces.

“Let’s call this just…a surprise. You’re a surprise?” Baekhyun offers. That sounds nice. He imagines it more like a gift – he’s wrapped up with a big red ribbon and left at his doorstep.

“A welcomed one?” Maybe he’s more like an unwanted puppy. Could be. A rejected life.

Baekhyun whistles, low and clumsy. “Certainly.” Then he leans in. “After you shook on my cock like that.”

Chanyeol hits him. Baekhyun laughs.

“But don’t you miss it?” Because Chanyeol misses it. Wholly. Entirely. Not in snippets. Not a good not a place not a service. Just all of it, together, his comfort, his home.

Or it’s Jongin. Jongin again. Solely Jongin.

“Oh. I miss it. Of course I do. Sometimes here it’s too quiet. Sometimes I feel like I’m not doing enough compared to what I’d do at home. Sometimes I’m the outsider. So blatantly so.” He smooths his hair down, parted to the side. It’s not a bad look. “But I think…if I go back I’d want to leave again.”

“Don’t you get attached though?” Compared to Chanyeol who has to have his things and his place, who finds it hard to give up anything, on anything, to welcome any change that takes something else away from him.

“To places? No,” Baekhyun says. He lets go of his hair, and hugs himself. It’s chill. The fervency of the sex has long since gone cold.  “But I get attached to people. So bad. So hard. It’s dangerous. I’d go to the end of the world for someone I hold dear.”

Maybe this was foreshadowing. Maybe it’s this point that brought Chanyeol a bit closer to him.

“At least I think.”

“You think?” That sounded like more than a speculation.

Baekhyun hesitates for a blink. “I’ve never been in love with anyone. I’ve had relationships almost reaching it. Almost. But not quite it. Which is why I don’t know.”

It’s surprising. For numerous reasons – his age, first of all – he’s thirty-one. Same age as Chanyeol. That’s a long time to go bereft. And then, his charm. It’s poignant. In your face, but subtle. For whilst audacious, it never lacked sensibility. It’s balanced. _He_ is balanced, in a way not many people are. Which is definitely a seductive characteristic.

“It’s not that great,” Chanyeol says. Not like he’s a veteran. He only had one love – has. _Has_. It’s still right there, present as ever.

“It seems to be?” Baekhyun says. He asks. Chanyeol, who has been through it, from Baekhyun, who has never had it.

“Jongin broke up with me thirteen days ago,” he says. He didn’t even need to count. “I can’t have a positive view on it now. I think it was wonderful. It must’ve been, if we lasted that long.”

“So it’s great, save for the ending,” Baekhyun concludes.

_Save for the ending._

“Yeah.”

 

 

 

 

He picks up the book Baekhyun gave him at the restaurant. It’s in good condition, seems to have not even been opened.

But as he leafs through it, he sees that it has notes everywhere, down to the last page. As though it’s been read fast, instead of carried in a bag over weeks, or month. It almost seems like a one afternoon read.

Chanyeol reads it. Along with the notes. Letter by letter, because those he understands, but not the words. But he reads it anyway.

When Chanyeol reaches the end, at the bottom of the cover, he sees a _7/10_. Seems like a date, but it doesn’t align with the dates if Baekhyun finished when he said he did.

Maybe it’s a rating. A grade. Chanyeol snorts. He doesn’t even know if he agrees with it, being that he has no idea what happened in it. But he thinks 7/10 is about right.

 

 

 

 

Chanyeol doesn’t want to do anything when he could do everything. Everything is on hold, idle, buffering, only so he could decide what to do next.

It’s clash of hedonism, nihilism, and some caducity that he will not name. Where he feels nothing, and if he is to feel something, it must be pleasure. And when it is pleasure, it doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t hold any value above nothingness.

But even thinking about this all is unappealing. There isn’t something more appealing to him. But this isn’t it either. He’s amiss, alive, anticipating.

He should go somewhere today. There are many crannies of London he hasn’t seen yet. A few more Korean restaurants to try out – Chanyeol has some cravings, but it’s mainly for dishes not meant to be enjoyed solo.

Even that is mild though. Not worth the effort of showering, getting dressed, going all the way there. He’s not even hungry. He hasn’t been hungry for days. Nothing is worth the effort. But wasting himself away is just too - wasteful. Dissolving into the sheets, seeping through foam and springs and the floor and reaching the ground below, as he’s fetid slush instead of a person. This wastefulness, too, is as irritating as being immobile.

Junmyeon calls. Again. Chanyeol didn’t reply to his call from a few hours ago, even if he had his phone in his hand.

He picks up now.

“Lullaby service?” Junmyeon asks politely. “I can’t sleep.”

“No, sorry, wrong number.”

“Chanyeooool,” Junmyeon whines.

“You called to ask me when I’ll be back again, didn’t you?”

“No?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, then, _yes_ ,” he huffs.

Chanyeol turns on his other side on the bed. It’s cool. He hisses. “I’ll sing to you now,” he says. Chanyeol sings, sometimes, or all the time. Chanyeol likes music. He’s quite the collector, especially of vinyls. But right now, he feels like he hasn’t heard a single song in ages and ages. His ears itch for it. It could be his own voice too – it would soothe him just fine.

So Chanyeol sings, and given the time, Junmyeon does fall asleep on the line with him. It feels like they’re in the same bed. Like he’s not alone.

 

 

 

 

“Move in with me,” Baekhyun throws, blasé, over the steam of his cup of tea. It doesn’t even recoil from his breath. Instead it’s one more tendril added to its little whirl. “If you’re staying.”

Baekhyun, this time, was not a message, not a phone call, but a knock on the door, hands in his pockets, bag on his shoulder, and a big smile. It’s lunch time. He will soon have to go back for a few more classes.

Chanyeol is surprised he chose to spend this precious chunk of time with him.

He looks at his valise. Everything is in there. He extended his stay again, for another week, and that’s up tomorrow.

“You saw I have another room,” Baekhyun says, a slight inflection to his tone, a brief remembrance of what transpired between them when Chanyeol was there. More of an acknowledgement, sly, as though they’re partners in crime.

“How much is the rent?” Chanyeol asks.

“Two grand fifty total, a grand twenty five your part,” he says. Odd mathematics, exotic.

Chanyeol converts it in his head, skewed, because he forgot how much a pound is. “That’s not very little.”

“No. But I’m only staying here for a few years. Wasn’t going to live at the edge of the city, far from everything, and then die commuting every day.”

Good point,” Chanyeol says. This is why he’s staying at this hotel too. Close to everything.

“So, are you in?”

Chanyeol looks at his suitcase. He doesn’t want to go back. Not now.

“Yeah.”

 

 

 

 

Hurt people are everywhere.

And those who don’t hurt…hurt too. Because there’s a value to this hurt. Because its very existence stems within something fundamental, a craving that knows no satiation, and no reasoning. Because when Chanyeol has no one, when he is alone – not quite alone, but there are different species of it – he wishes he has someone. To care about. To love about. To hurt about. It’s the pull of this void, a little incision that keeps spreading apart instead of scabbing over. And if it does scab, Chanyeol peels it back.

But so what.

There is nothing sad about it.

 

 

 

 

Today, Chanyeol doesn’t look for Jongin. No searching him up, no trying to guess his passwords, no stalking his friends.

Why does it feel more like regress than progress. Why.

 

 

 

Chanyeol moves in with Baekhyun. He has himself, and the suitcase. Not much. The baggage he’s carrying isn’t the one in his hand.

Moving in is just entering, is sitting down, and just being there. Simple.

Baekhyun shows him to that room. He puts the valise in the corner behind the door. The mattress isn’t bare anymore, but covered with navy blue sheets, little rockets and stars splattered haphazardly. On the wall facing the bed, a collage of what looks like dollar store hippie paintings, a gun, a cricket, flower, coffee beans, Live laugh love. A bunny.

Chanyeol looks away.

Baekhyun comes back, the soles of his slippers rigid, snapping on the floorboards like a whip. He’s unbuttoning his shirt. His work shirt, because it’s Tuesday evening, and he just came back from class.

“There’s nothing to really like about it now,” he says, gesturing broadly at the room. “It’s kind of boring. The dude before you was into this _minimalism_ thing.” Finger air quotes, then he goes back to unbuttoning. Chanyeol looks at his now-exposed chest. Baekhyun catches him, and keeps unbuttoning. “This is a good thing though. We could do it to your taste.”

“I like it like this,” Chanyeol says. “For now.”

It has no personality, no tie to him. A blank new page, instead of the guts of a memoir. Even the room at the hotel started to suffocate him. Here the air feels cleaner, lighter. It seeps through the cracked window, the gauzy curtain dancing with the breeze.

Baekhyun’s shirt is all unbuttoned. “Good. Now I have some work to do,” he says. “Unfortunately.”

Chanyeol leans on the doorway of _his_ room. Could be considered to have a little plaque with his name bolted on the door. In his imagination.

He watches Baekhyun meander into the kitchen – slap slap, his slippers. The layout of the apartment is designed nicely, a modest living coursing into a semi-open kitchen, which further serves to the balcony. Facing Chanyeol’s room, the entryway, the bathroom, to the right, Baekhyun’s bedroom. There isn’t a room without windows.

The décor is concentrated in functionality. No other art pieces, statues, plushies. No things without a use. But there is a scattering of everyday items all over the place. A bottle of moisturizer beside the TV, a pair of Bluetooth earphones charging on the floor, a saucer with two dry teabags on the coffee table, a small cork planner on the wall of the entryway, a leathered tissue box on the edge of the kitchen island spilling into the living, a big, wrinkly pillow on the couch, a stack of books, and then another stack of books, and one more stack of books, raging from a handful, to a dangerously teetering tower. It looks lived in. Personal.

Chanyeol doesn’t mind calling it home. For now.

Baekhyun has his nose in a bag that he takes out of a cupboard. He brings it with him towards the living, dropping it onto the couch, then hurling one of the – apples – towards Chanyeol. He barely catches it.

Baekhyun sits down with one already in his mouth, getting comfy on the floor, in front of the coffee table, and opening his laptop.

It’s a dinner of apples tonight. They’re really good apples, juicy, not too sweet, not too sour, their taste and fragrance lavish, even though they’re very far from their season.

Chanyeol sits behind him, pulling his legs up onto the couch cushions.

Baekhyun doesn’t speak as he works. He’s composing an examination sheet; a few textbooks open beside his laptop that he checks regularly. Chanyeol just watches him, nibbling his apple little by little. Chanyeol had three. Baekhyun had four, the cores browning next the teabag in the saucer next to his cup.

Tea rings. First because of the too hot sips, loud little slurps and the occasional yelp, and then it was forgotten - lesson learned, one burn is enough – until “Shit, shit, my tea!” and a few generous gulps. The first ring. Then chugging most of it when he realizes he’s let it go too cold. Then the cluster of rings at the bottom after proposing himself to take periodical sips but forgetting again. And the last two. The pity sips, when it’s all cold and he gave up on it, pushing the cup away. Only for a while later to reach for it again, make a face, put it away.

When he’s done, signalled by a noisy stretch – a groan and popping bones – he gets up to go to the kitchen, drinking the very last droplet of tea on the way. Chanyeol follows him, gathering the cores, and the tissues they used.

He looks at the cup. Black tea stains most. Then green. And then white. It seemed to have been stained over and over, the inside of it tawny, until it clears near the lip.  

Baekhyun takes it, rinses it.

“Was that enough?” he asks, yawning big, three little chins growing under his jaw. “Or should we have another dinner?”

“I’m pretty full.”

“Me too.”

Baekhyun yawns once more, and Chanyeol can’t help mirroring it this time. He’s sleepy, he realizes. Not that he did much. He didn’t do much on any of the days he spent here.

Baekhyun chuckles when his mouth closes, appraising the sway of Chanyeol’s figure as he is also claimed by a second yawn.

“Let’s go to bed now. At least for the beauty sleep,” he says, as he waddles out of the kitchen. Just socked feet. No more slap slap. Chanyeol trails after him, until they reach the junction between their rooms.

Baekhyun yawns, stretches, his shirt riding up. “Good night,” he says, and turns around without waiting for Chanyeol’s reply.

“Good night,” he whispers, at which Baekhyun lets out an acknowledging whine and dives into the dark of his room – he doesn’t turn the light on – only to plop right into bed a few seconds later. He leaves the door open.

Chanyeol keeps still for a second, lost. Before he remembers that he has his own place here. He’s not a guest.

He enters his room. Without turning on the light. He makes it to the bed, curls up under the sheets, pulls them up towards his chin.

He leaves the door open too.

He can hear Baekhyun shuffling a bit more, the rub of fabric, a few hiccups.

Chanyeol is all moved in. He sleeps.  

 

 

 

 

There is a glass in the bathroom holding Baekhyun’s toothbrush and toothpaste. They look lonely. Chanyeol adds his own. They look less lonely.

Next to his towel, Chanyeol puts his own. Next to his shampoo and shower gel, Chanyeol puts his own. Next to his razor and shaving cream, Chanyeol puts his own.

Because he is here to stay. At the hotel, he moved back and forth from the valise to the bathroom each time with his toiletries. There is no need for that now.

Baekhyun only says that his salmon coloured towel is cute. Jongin picked it. Chanyeol just smiles.

He looks into the fridge. Bottled water. Ketchup, mustard, soy sauce. A few cans of kimchi, small ones. A carton of eggs, a jar of green olives, pre-shredded parmesan. A container of some kind of takeout – perhaps Indian food, judging by the name and the logo. And beer. Three bottles of beer. On the door, a few containers of yogurt. Chanyeol picks one up. Strawberry yogurt.

He opens the freezer too. A bag of mandu and two pizzas. Nothing else.

“I can feel the judgment from here,” Baekhyun shouts from his room.

Chanyeol is pretty jittery to just…cook. His tongue might’ve been revived by those apples. He’s craving something. A stew, spicy, complex, heavy.

“Aren’t you hungry?” he asks as Baekhyun slaps slaps into the kitchen.

“I’m never not,” he replies, and it takes a while for Chanyeol to process it. He will get used to this, this lyrical, periphrastic manner of his talk.

“Then why is your fridge like this?”

“What’s wrong with my fridge?” He puts his back to the door, arms protectively risen against it. “You’re hurting its feelings. Please be careful.”

Chanyeol shakes his head, and moves on to open a cupboard. The spice cabinet containing no spices. Packs and packs of ramyeon. He grabs one. It’s not even good ramyeon. A big bag of unrefined, ugly salt in a corner, and a small bag of spilled peppercorns in the other.

“I’m about to insult your cupboard too,” Chanyeol whispers. He’s just disappointed. A childish disappointment, like he has nothing to play with, no toys.

He opens another cupboard. It’s just as desolate. Clean, no dust, just barren. He almost sees a few tumbleweeds scrabbling across on the shelves. He closes the doors, encasing the desert within.

Then the last cupboard, which is full of tea. Pretty, embossed metal boxes, cartons, a wooden chest of sorts with a glass cap, displaying shiny, colourful rows of individually packaged teabags.

“Not going to insult this one,” Chanyeol says, closing it, patting the door gently. At least Baekhyun likes the sound of that, gauging by the proud little grin on his face.

“I’ll cook,” Chanyeol declares. The next course of action. Baekhyun has to go to work later in the day. There is time for shopping, for cooking, for eating. There is time.

“Let’s go then,” Baekhyun says, eyes lighting up, and slapping away towards the foyer. He grabs his car key from the hanger, then looks at Chanyeol. “Hurry your ass.”

Chanyeol bolts after him, not before getting a few bags from the bag drawer, then they go grocery shopping.  

 

 

 

 

Chanyeol makes a spicy chicken stew, or just braised chicken, a mix-and-match of sorts that carries the flavour profile of home, even though they didn’t use any authentic condiments, for they didn’t make it to any Asian supermarket. It’s still close enough. And delicious as fuck.

Chanyeol eats, for the first time since he came here, to his heart’s content. Baekhyun keeps stealing from the pot until they have to rock paper scissors for the last drumstick. Chanyeol wins. But still he halves it, and transfers the half into Baekhyun’s bowl when he isn’t looking.

Baekhyun’s mouth is rimmed with dry sauce, speckled with a few grains of rice. His own mouth isn’t looking any cleaner. It’s just what being excited about a food can cause.

“I’m never letting go of you,” Baekhyun whispers, bowl empty, licking his smiley lips.

Chanyeol finds himself licking his own smiley lips.

Baekhyun titters, and gets up to wash the dishes.

 

 

 

 

Baekhyun has a private lesson this afternoon. It’s a teenager. Oliver, is his name, Chanyeol finds out after Baekhyun mentions it enough times. Just Oliver. No honorifics from one to the other, no sort of hierarchy, at least in English. Curly, ashy hair, light eyes, green-ish, brown-ish.

He salutes Chanyeol when he enters. He attempts small talk too. Chanyeol is tongue tied. He looks helplessly at Baekhyun. Who bursts into laughter – reserved, polite laughter, because while he is in house clothes – the better ones – he’s a teacher now, and has some etiquette to keep. Then Oliver tries Korean, which doesn’t work for them either. Baekhyun laughs, and saves him.

They go into the balcony, where Baekhyun has unfolded the small table and put the chairs on either sides.

Chanyeol hears the whole lesson without meaning to hear. It’s from the start – the boy knows hangeul, the symbols, but doesn’t quite grasp yet how to form words. Baekhyun passes right into simple words. Simple greetings. How to ask where the bathroom is. Laughter. Oliver laughing at his own mistakes. Baekhyun plays along with them, makes them memorable, so he doesn’t make the same mistake twice.

Chanyeol feels as though he’s learning something himself as he’s cooking. The space between the balcony and where he’s standing at the kitchen counter is barely a few steps.

He’s making a few side dishes to last. Spinach. Stir-fried zucchini. Crispy tofu. Not enough utensils. Baekhyun’s chopping board is shit. The knife too, though now that he’s sharpened it, it’s a little better. The edge doesn’t hold for long.

Baekhyun comes in a while later, to procure a little juice box from the fridge. He looks into Chanyeol’s bowl, hums appreciatively, and picks one long strand of spinach, dropping it into his mouth, head tipped back, as he walks, swallowing before the door of the balcony closes behind him again.

The whole lesson lasts for a little over an hour. When they get out, Oliver tells him goodbye, in Korean, to which Chanyeol replies at once, impressed. He said it so clearly. Chanyeol even bows, which takes the boy aback for a second before he returns it, going a bit lower than Chanyeol did.

Baekhyun goes to see him out.

Chanyeol returns to his garlic. He couldn’t find pre-crushed ones. And Baekhyun doesn’t have a food processor. He’s mincing a pile by hand, a few bulbs in there. It should last for a few days.

Baekhyun is back, immediately nosing into bowls.

“Hello,” he says, in English, resting his hip against the counter.

Chanyeol looks over at him. “Hello?” he asks, not knowing where Baekhyun is going with this, for the expression he’s wearing is oddly severe. He was in a good mood just a second ago.

“Oh, so you do know that,” he says, in Korean. “How are you?” he continues, in English.

“I’m good,” Chanyeol says. Fumbly. Just a bit fumbly. “Hungry?” He knows his accent is strong in it.

“Are you asking me?”

“Well, that too,” Chanyeol says, in Korean, just because he can’t tie it in English. He knows the words, but not how to put them together.

Baekhyun keeps the severe look on for another second before he laughs. “You’re so bad at this,” he says. “How did they let you become a lawyer?”

Chanyeol _is_ offended. And mildly ashamed. “How did they let _you_ become a professor when you don’t know how to peel an onion?”

“How is that _useful_?” Baekhyun retaliates, scandalized.

Chanyeol just picks up the very first piece of pork belly from the pan, which seems cooked enough, and stuffs it into his mouth. Baekhyun barely opens in time.

He moans immediately.

Chanyeol raises his eyebrows at him. “The marinade: onions. The sauce: onions. On top: onions.”

Baekhyun just cannot fight that. He admits defeat, but then attacks.

“Yeah, but you have homework from now on,” he retorts, leaving no room for argument. “You can’t be living with an English _teacher_ and _not_ know English.”

“You don’t know law either,” Chanyeol shoots.

Baekhyun narrows his eyes at him. “I’ll let you have your point even though you are aware that in this circumstance, you need English more than I need law.”

Chanyeol cannot refute that. And he wouldn’t even if he could – Baekhyun’s narrowed eyes are too intimidating. He stirs the pan, catching the caramelized bits along the perimeter and bringing them into the sauce.

“Okay,” he agrees. “I have homework now.”

Baekhyun jumps in place. “I’ll take care of you!” he vows, “You’ll be a pro in no time.”

“Free of charge?” Chanyeol laughs.

“This,” Baekhyun says, taking the wooden spoon from Chanyeol and fishing another piece of pork belly from the pan, “Is charge.” He plops it into his mouth, burns himself, but still moans.

Chanyeol hastily passes him a glass of water.

And from after dinner, Chanyeol has some mini homework to do, brief quizzes on scraps of slightly tinted paper. Chanyeol does them every day, and Baekhyun checks up on them every night, after they eat, or before, before they cocoon themselves on the couch in front of the TV, before they shower, or after, before they go to bed.

Chanyeol learns, little by little.

 

 

 

 

Chanyeol calls Jongin. It doesn’t connect.

 

 

 

 

“Wanna come too?” Baekhyun asks, going around the house, dressing up. He’s picking up the socks from yesterday. It must be a short trip to somewhere close. Chanyeol presses pause on the series on his laptop. He doesn’t know the name of it, nor what happens. His bones hurt. He nods and gets up.

“Not gonna ask me where?”

“It doesn’t matter where,” Chanyeol says. He has no businesses of his own in this city. Going out for him is just being a tourist. Following Baekhyun around, who actually has something to do here, is bound to be more interesting.

“You might get even more bored than you are here,” Baekhyun warns as Chanyeol pulls on a hoodie, followed by his denim jacket.

“I’m still coming.”

Baekhyun huffs, slipping his feet into his loafers. The canvas loafers. Casual too. Chanyeol has a single pair of shoes. For business and for pleasure and for all the in betweens. He puts them on, plucks the house key from the hook, and follows Baekhyun out.

They keep it to an area Chanyeol is familiar with before he takes a turn, and all of it turns unknown. They pass by a small ice-cream parlour. Baekhyun stops for a second in front of it, before he says, “No, I’ve already had one this week,” and keeps walking.

“You’re only limited to one per week?” Chanyeol asks, chucking. It’s odd how Baekhyun seems to be walking leisurely, yet Chanyeol, though he has a lot more meterage of leg than him, can’t keep up, and has to jog to catch up with him a few times.

“I’m not twenty anymore,” he says with slight regret. “Nothing is forgiving with me.”

“I don’t think one more Ice cream will kill you.”

“It won’t. But I say the same about all the other things. Till one day, one will kill me,” he says, doing a little twirl, sing song on the stress of _kill_.

He then takes a sharp turn and - it’s an antique book store. Of course. Chanyeol smiles.

It’s small, at first, cramped. But as he enters, it unfolds, rows close together, and long, stretching ad infinitum. Baekhyun greets the young woman behind the tally, who is crouched over a volume in her lap, rusty, curly hair contouring the round of her cheeks. “The new stuff is pretty good this time,” she says, at which Baekhyun makes a happy little noise, bouncing straight towards the back.

“They haven’t shelved these yet,” Baekhyun explains, leading him towards a mountain of books. Next to them, some empty raffia sacks. “ _Oh my god_ ,” he squeals, reading the title of the book topping the pile. It rises to operatic standards, before it shrinks into a smile no less marvellous. “I can’t believe I finally found this one.”

He sits right there on the floor next to the mountain, legs crossed, as the picks up book after book.

His vice. His addiction. He’s addicted to the stories of other people. A vicarious indulgence.

Their scent is of fermented timberlands, of soot and wonder. Maybe that’s how Baekhyun smells too, his skin imbrued with the tales in the books, vellum waiting to be inked. Chanyeol doesn’t pick up any book. He leans into Baekhyun, until he can’t tell the scent of the books from Baekhyun’s.

 

 

 

 

Chanyeol brings Baekhyun coffee. At work.

He knows his schedule. It’s all laid out on the little planner on the wall above his desk. Printed out, and scrawled over. With markers. Colourful markers. Because he really likes colourful markers.  

And pens. Glitter pens. Scented. Strawberry vanilla, and something else, dulce, ersatz.

Chanyeol looked up which subway to take. From Piccadilly to SOAS. It doesn’t take long. It’s crowded.

Chanyeol just has no business being inside. He has no business here at all. But he could find himself something to do – bringing Baekhyun lunch.

He made Kimbap too, because it’s easy, and universally loved. So he has kimbap and coffee for Baekhyun.

What’s left is to actually _find_ Baekhyun. Which, as Chanyeol stands in front of the building, seems harder than he anticipated. He texts him.

_I have a delivery for Mister Byun_

He ponders asking a few of the students pouring out of the doors. But he doesn’t trust his tongue.

_The library park_

Chanyeol stares. That’s not very helpful. At least until he spots a panel with directions. From there, it’s easy.

He spots him on a bench. His hair glows in the sun.

Chanyeol approaches him. Next to him, he sees a book. And a few of what looks like vending machine croissants. Unopened. And a bottle of water. Unopened.

When Chanyeol sits next to him, he makes a sound of delight, eyes glinting at the coffee. Chanyeol gives it to him with a chuckle.

“You’re getting lonely in there all alone, aren’t you?” he asks, smile huge atop the coffee. Small coffees, he likes. Flat white.

Chanyeol gives Baekhyun a pair of chopsticks, and opens up the lunchbox. He picks up a kimbap disk. He made them thick, not intentionally, but because he still hasn’t bought a new knife and that one is terrible. Baekhyun opens wide, cheek an enormous bump, simper tucked at the side.

“I think I’m lonely everywhere,” he says. It’s not about the house. If he was in Korea, in his own apartment, he would be lonely too. If he went to work. If he saw colleagues. Junmyeon. Met friends afterwards, had a meal, had a drink. Still lonely.

“Even on this bench?”

“What’s special about this bench?” Chanyeol asks, teasing. It’s just the tone, because he is still lonely. With Baekhyun here, he is still lonely.

“This lovely mademoiselle?” he asks, as if it’s obvious, and Chanyeol is befuddled, before he follows Baekhyun gaze only to find – a cute little ladybug sitting on Chanyeol’s thigh.

Chanyeol laughs.

Baekhyun smiles back, and stuffs a disk into Chanyeol’s mouth too, tutting – _you should never take breaks this long. Your mouth will forget that it’s eating._

“This sounds like something your grandma told you,” Chanyeol says. He’s pretty sure his own said the same thing. Maybe all of them did. It’s just a thing grandmas would say.

“Totally.” Coffee slurp. Moan. Then one more, tinier slurp. He’s nuzzling into that little opening on the lid. “Or maybe yours,” he adds, eyes narrow. “Is she doing well?”

It’s what brought them together in the first place. The countryside, Goryeong. The bus ride felt interminable to the small Chanyeol. But when he arrived, he was excited to meet the boy from the house a few roads down. In his backpack, he had more toys and games than clothes. 

Their grandparents were close, and then they were there too, always telling them not to do their summer homework – _it’s useless_. Of course, they loved them for that.

He remembers Baekhyun’s grandma. He looks like her. And his mom too – when she came to drop him off, and then the one week she stayed as well – looked just like him. Her voice was nice. She used to sing some pansori when she made them both work in the field – time passed faster. Baekhyun knew how to sing like that too, and he did it to annoy Chanyeol. Perhaps things in his family are very consistent.

And when he thinks about his own – his lips curl, not in a smile, but not in a not-smile either. “Yes. I think everyone is doing well in heaven.”

She passed away after Chanyeol came back from his military service. Before his hair had had a chance to grow back. She pulled on his ears. Told him to use them well – _listen to people_. Always listen to people.

Baekhyun is pulling together a disintegrated round. Kimbap surgery. Failed kimbap surgery, for he ends up eating it in little pieces.

“Of course, she’s doing well,” Baekhyun says. “She has her best friend with her in heaven.”

“Oh.”

It’s a happy thing. Bitter. But sweet. Powder sugar instead of dust.

“I think you make this better than her,” Baekhyun says, chopsticks tapping the Tupperware container. He’s been eating diligently. Chanyeol isn’t nearly as hungry – he ate the ends right as he finished, along with a few other filings right out of the pan.

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere. You still have to do the dishes when you get back,” he says. Not that he’s not glad Baekhyun likes it. There are not many ways to upgrade kimbap. Definitely more ways to downgrade it.

“Oh no,” Baekhyun gawps. “I’m not coming back ever again.”

Chanyeol hits him in the shoulder. Baekhyun laughs. “No, but I’ll really be back later than I thought. They scheduled a meeting later.” Then the conspiracy voice. “Some internal drama is happening.” Whistle. “At least it’s fun.”

Chanyeol won’t ask now what that drama is. He will ask later, after the meeting, when he comes home. He can tell Baekhyun already can’t wait to tell him.

“Thank you for feeding me!” Baekhyun yells after him as he’s leaving. His tone changes, going deeper instead of higher, and it’s nice, that _thank you_ , shouted over.

 

 

 

 

 

On Saturday, all the cleaning must be done before noon.

Music – just turning on the little flat tv and letting it run on the music channel. Lots of commercials, but thankfully most of these have music in the background too, so it’s doesn’t distract much. Scrubbing the bathroom and the kitchen – sinks, cabinets, fridge, stove, bathtub, toilet – then vacuuming, dusting, mopping the floors, changing sheets, laundry.

The casing of his little red pillow, that he washes and puts to dry the fastest, just to have to back on immediately.

And then, the very last touch, a little incense stick. Which he burns for only a few minutes, running from room to room, a victory torch.

They collapse on the couch, the whole house clean before them. It smells nice. A mixture of all the cleaning agents, and the incense, and the breeze, both summery and earthen. Baekhyun wiggles, sniffs, spreads out, starfishing over Chanyeol.

“We de-pigged.” Then he turns towards him, headband falling into his eyes along with his bangs. “This really is so much easier to do with two.”

“I think I did most of the work,” Chanyeol says. He’s sore, muscles tender, joints achy. It’s nice.

“You have both longer legs _and_ longer arms, not my fault,” Baekhyun shrugs, smile unfaltering. He sniffs the air once more.

 

 

 

 

Later on, Oliver comes over again. It’s his second visit, out of four, Baekhyun lets him know. He really only needs it to pass the beginner test for an adjacent curriculum, not more than that.

Chanyeol greets him this time – asks him how it’s going. There’s a grammar mistake in there – there’s a certain face Baekhyun makes when he hears one, as though it’s nails on chalkboard for him. It’s mildly amusing, but not a sight Chanyeol enjoys – he rather prefers Baekhyun’s proud face when his daily homework is impeccable.

They settle for him replying in Korean, while Chanyeol talks in English.

“So it’s mutually beneficial,” Baekhyun says, playing their intermediator. Right now, he’s just taking out some of his strawberry yogurt bottles. Puts two on the coffee table in the living – it’s gloomy today. No balcony. He will have the lesson inside.

Chanyeol goes back into his room. He sees Junmyeon’s texts – _what was it that you put in ramyeon to make it that good?_ He opens Instagram. Jongin isn’t on his feed. Because Jongin blocked him.

Chanyeol replies to Junmyeon. _Milk_. He puts the phone down. He couldn’t sleep last night.

With one ear, he listens the patter of the rain, with the other, he listens to Baekhyun talking in crisply articulated words. They harmonize, layer, dovetail smoothly. Chanyeol listens until he falls asleep.

 

 

 

 

Chanyeol has something to ask. He goes to Baekhyun’s room and—

Baekhyun is touching himself. Not fully, not quite there. His hand is placed over his crotch, curved around it, but over clothes.

Chanyeol feels a zap. Unadulterated arousal. He hasn’t had contact of this sort again, for a while. How immediate it is. A virginal response, like this is new, like he has never seen a man touch himself before.

Baekhyun gasps – not in alarm, particularly, for he doesn’t make to remove his hand, or to hide. He’s just startled by Chanyeol’s sudden appearance, nothing more.

“Should’ve knocked,” Baekhyun says.

“The door is open,” Chanyeol says. “It’s always open.”

“Still should’ve knocked.”

Chanyeol knocks on the wall. Baekhyun smiles, cheeks high. “Come in.”

Chanyeol is already in. He doesn’t step in further. He peers at Baekhyun’s crotch. Because it’s hard not to, when Baekhyun’s hand is still there, but now _moving_.

A breath later, he just takes it out. He’s not fully hard, but getting there.

Chanyeol doesn’t remember exactly how his cock looked. Like this, in this light, in this circumstance, it’s kind of pretty. Proportional. A vague pinkness to it, but otherwise pale. Two fingers lead up, until they stop at the edge of the corona.

“I said you could come in,” Baekhyun whispers.

Chanyeol looks at him. He’s down for this. He’s just down for this. It’s his invitation. The last time, the hesitation was in his court, now it’s in Chanyeol’s. But it only lasts a moment.

Because while he doesn’t see why he should do this, he doesn’t see why not either. And he wants to. The blatancy. The accessibility of it. Once doesn’t make them fuckbuddies. Maybe twice doesn’t either. Maybe that doesn’t make them anything at all, because it doesn’t have to.

Chanyeol just wants to _come in_. Join him.

So Chanyeol comes in. Baekhyun parts his legs – his bed is oddly sized. Not quite single, not quite double. He spreads them until his feet edge the mattress, and raises his brow. Chanyeol nears, puts a knee on it, Baekhyun opens his arms.

And stares. Expectant. Obviously expectant, smiling gently, eyes afire. “Now what?” he irks.

Chanyeol doesn't know how to initiate kisses anymore. All the kisses he shared with Jongin in the past year were kisses Jongin wanted. Chanyeol had many more kisses he wanted that went unfulfilled. Because as Jongin said _, I don't wanna kiss you._

Jongin often didn't want to kiss him. Perhaps after he said this, a bit sweet from an energy drink for it was late, his shirt stuck to his skin, after coming to Chanyeol’s apartment just to see him and tell him this. Perhaps he didn't really want to kiss Chanyeol past that. And Chanyeol wanted to. So many times. But he was afraid. He was afraid of rejection, of recoil, of the way he pulled from his hold that time when he washed the dishes. They only kissed when Jongin asked for it. When Jongin leaned in for it. Which was increasingly often as the love waned - desperation - but it was never started by Chanyeol. Because how could he kiss him when Jongin didn't want to. When Jongin didn't want to kiss him anymore. How could he.

So this is new. Very new. Palsy of relearning. And with Baekhyun he can initiate. He can have it. He won't be rejected. He won’t.

Baekhyun parts his lips, and Chanyeol kisses him. Just kisses him. The ease of this all is so enticing. Pulled in by selfsame desire – a loneliness, excitability, boredom, and the sensuousness of what this promises. In a few sucks, Baekhyun is climbing hands up his back, mouth open, tongue frolicking about Chanyeol’s. Just like that.

Their lips fit over and over, metrical, tailored to fit one another, to please one another. Kissing isn’t easy. Kissing is an effort, is a cooperation, has something conscious and deliberate and mindful about it. It’s easy, but maybe not that easy.

Baekhyun is fisting the edges of his shirt.

“Did you come just to kiss me?” he asks. He’s breathless, because Chanyeol stole it all.

“No.”

“To fuck me too?”

“No.” He wouldn’t be satisfied just with that.

“To get fucked?”

Chanyeol mouth dries. “If you want.”

“I think I want,” Baekhyun smiles. He then takes Chanyeol’s hand, puts it on his cock, and it goes from here.

Baekhyun’s touch is stratified. It’s a caress at the same time it’s a touch, it’s lenient at the same time it’s commandeering. Chanyeol pulls at his clothes. He wants skin.

Baekhyun gives in, lets Chanyeol claw at him until he’s naked, then pushes Chanyeol into the mattress and shreds him bare as well.

And then it’s a melange of slow and of fast – unsureness and sureness. Because they’re strangers in so many aspects, and lovers, in just one. Friends, in another one.

And this time, Baekhyun turns him over, swift, and presses him down, hard, as he drives into him. Chanyeol’s neck cramps, and he can’t quite breathe, face deep in the fluff of the pillow. But he likes this. It’s loud. Bed creaks included. And he loves it too. Because Baekhyun is being selfish. The last time, it was him. It was what he wanted, the motions he wanted – which he knows didn’t do that much for Baekhyun. The last time, Chanyeol used him. And now, Baekhyun is the one using him. It’s gratifying, immensely. The stutter of Baekhyun’s hands, and the moans too, as he falls over Chanyeol’s back, and moans. He just moans. Small. Yips and mewls. Almost non-human. Cute, but so pure in their lasciviousness. All from using Chanyeol. From enjoying Chanyeol. Chanyeol being good to him, for him.

He wasn’t for Jongin. Jongin didn’t enjoy him as much. The last couple of times. He knows he didn’t. that vapidity couldn’t be compensated for.

And it’s not from experience. None of this is practiced, mechanized – too much brusquerie, too much indecisiveness – but this is all the product of enjoyment and attentiveness – to himself, and to Chanyeol.

Baekhyun finishes first, moan the loudest, the prettiest. Chanyeol’s chest flutters with pleasure.

He pulls out, turns Chanyeol again, and dips to suck him off. Shallow. Not that he needs to do more. Chanyeol is so close, so very close.

He comes in Baekhyun’s hand, trembling over the sheets. Baekhyun stares pensively at his hand before he brings it to his mouth. “Hm,” he says, licking the come between his fingers, “not bad.”

“Liar,” Chanyeol accuses, panting.

Baekhyun just grins, impish, and jumps off the bed. “Be right back,” he shouts, followed by the sound of the bathroom door shutting.

Chanyeol leans back on the bed, relishing in the twitch of his body.

The shower turns on. The turbo showers. Under three minutes. Baekhyun bragged about it, and then made Chanyeol time it. He easily does it in two minutes.

He doesn’t count now, but he is sure it took about two when Baekhyun is back, another thud of a drawer shutting, and Baekhyun throws a towel on his face.

Chanyeol can’t do three minute showers. He can do five minimum. He manages eight now. maybe. Or more. For when he is back, Baekhyun has his long tee back on, no underwear, and a fresh cup of coffee in his hands. Just black, half full. The late afternoon coffee. Meant to keep him alert just so he can do his work for tonight.

Chanyeol was about to put on his old tee, but he doesn’t want to. He steals Baekhyun’s bathrobe and throws the tee in the hamper. He picks up a bottle of beer from the fridge on the way to the balcony.

Baekhyun appraises him, obviously, gaze going up and down. A smirk pins to the side, before he shakes his head again, wet hair flailing. He picks up the cigarette pack, and holds it up to Chanyeol.

“Shall we,” he says, uncaring, taking one out, twirling it, and proffering it to Chanyeol with the filter turned towards him. Like it’s a knife. A weapon. Chanyeol takes it, sits.

They smoke. Chanyeol stares at the pack. Art on it, like graffiti, oddly vintage, as well as oddly contemporary. Roses and skulls, pink and black. A bit emo, a bit edgy, but chic.

“They’re not mine. I didn’t buy these. The old roommate was into specialty, or fancy cigarettes. Imported from somewhere I never heard of.”

Hipster cigarettes go well with brand-less beer. Chanyeol scoffs. They interchange. Chanyeol with his coffee, Baekhyun with his beer.

“He was nice.”

“How nice?”

“Not enough to sleep with,” Baekhyun tsks. He keeps running hands through his hair, sliding fingers to his scalp and shaking it. A fluffy little storm atop his head, spikes of damp hair everywhere.

Baekhyun smiles. Lipless, toothy.

“Should I be honoured?”

“Only if you are.”

“Glad to meet the criteria,” he says, laughingly.

“Glad to meet yours too,” Baekhyun says. “Is that hard?”

He thinks about it. His criteria. “No. Because I don’t even know it.”

“Ouch,” Baekhyun says, twisting it as though it means Chanyeol has no standards. It’s not wrong, but not quite right either. It would still be best to not confirm it.

“Don’t take it like that.”

“But like what?”

Chanyeol crosses his legs. He’s sore. He likes it. “Like I only had him,” he says, “and no one else.”

Chanyeol can’t even think of that. Of other people. Of _standards_ , when he _only_ had eyes for Jongin. “Do you know how long nine years is,” he says. He doesn’t ask, because Baekhyun cannot possibly answer.

“We hit a rocky patch in the second year, a bit into the third. If we were to break up, we would’ve done it then. Two, three years is enough, isn’t it?” He looks down. The bunny slippers. White all around, floppy ears. A lionhead bunny, Disneyfied. Baekhyun bought them three days ago, after getting annoyed at the stinky slap slap slippers from before. For Chanyeol, he brought bear ones. Bunny and bear.

His foot is shaking, because being focused, for Baekhyun, means agitation.

Chanyeol licks his lips. “To know all there is to like, to dislike all there is to like, and then to want more.”

It was then that they both wondered if they hadn’t settled. Settling, at that age, was a frightening construct. When, for everyone around them, it meant freedom. Being together deprived them of experiences they couldn’t recover later in life. Other sexual partners. Other crushes, loves. People. Just people.

“After we passed that, we were just…set,” he says. “Well, until last year, But—”

“Didn’t you fight?” Baekhyun asks, just when Chanyeol’s heart begins smarting.

“We did. But never about something that mattered. We talked about things that mattered, not fought.” There was a learning curve to that too. Pettiness getting the best of any heart, no matter how devout. Learning how to fight took a while. But they got so good at it that, truly, Chanyeol cannot recall their last scuffle. “Unwashed dishes never broke a war.”

Baekhyun scoffs. “I feel better now.” Because he leaves them unwashed for a while. Just so some more gather. So he doesn’t have to get his hands wet multiple times. He likes to do as many in one go as possible. Chanyeol wasn’t going to bring it up.

Chanyeol reaches forward. He plays with the ears of Baekhyun’s bunnies. Chanyeol baptises him. The right one, Bobohu, the left one Kyung. Just because. He doesn’t tell Baekhyun. He pats their heads. Baekhyun wiggles his feet, bunnies in delight.

“So you were, like, married.”

“I think we were,” Chanyeol says. “ _Married_ ,” he stresses the word, for its magnitude to come through. “Not in the law sense. Not in the living arrangement sense. Just….How we treated ourselves, and what we had.” Pause. He cannot think of names for his little bear slippers. Bear. Jongin liked bears. Baekhyun doesn’t know. He has no means of knowing. Nini and Loey. Why not. He shakes his head. “Does that count?”

“Of course,” Baekhyun says, inhaling the last of his cigarette. It burned in his hand more than he sucked from it. The chrism of their confessional. “You know,” the ash taps, “you can talk about him more if you need to.” He takes a sip of Chanyeol’s beer. “Since this is so fresh.”

Chanyeol takes his coffee in turn. It’s weak. As the afternoon coffee should be. “I need to, but I’m trying not to.”

“Why?”

“It’s not helping me move forward.”

“Ah,” Baekhyun says. Genuinely surprised. This is the moment that puts ambiguity between them. He cannot tell what perspective Baekhyun has on this, and the way he waves it off, is as though he doesn’t intend to go on about it either. He just lets it be.

He gets up, carefully prying the coffee cup out of Chanyeol’s hold. “I’d rather have your beer, to be honest, but I have some tests to grade.” He bemoans, exactly meaning to make Chanyeol feel bad for him. Which he does, because he has been made plentifully aware of how much Baekhyun hates grading.

“Yours included,” he says, right before disappearing inside. Chanyeol rolls his eyes.

He is left alone. He could think about Jongin. Some more. Did he have raspberries yet. It’s about the season they’d appear in the grocery stores – he’s seen them here. Not quite in season, there’s a while till the summer deepens enough, but they’d be better than the winter ones.

Chanyeol grabs his beer, downs it all, and does his homework, taking paper out from the stack, and working on it slowly.

He misses Jongin.

 

 

 

 

“Park Chanyeol-ssi,” Junmyeon says, formally, “Your paid vacation days are all used up. If you do not present to work on Monday, your work contract will be terminated.”

Chanyeol rolls his eyes, simpers, and puts the phone on speaker. “You can’t fire me after I resigned.”

“But you didn’t resign.”

“Sure I did, just now. Didn’t you hear the ‘I resigned’?”

“But I fired you first?”

“No, you said on Monday. It’s Thursday.”

Junmyeon sighs, suffering. Chanyeol almost feels bad.

“But what are you doing?”

“Boiling some eggs,” he says. They bought a big bottle of soy sauce, and the first thing Chanyeol thought to use it for was marinating them.

“Where?”

“London.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you boiling eggs in London.”

“There’s nothing wrong with boiling eggs in London.” There is nothing wrong with boiling eggs anywhere.

Junmyeon breathes out. It’s not a sigh. Because Junmyeon doesn’t sigh over matters like this. “I thought you came back, and were just avoiding me.”

As if he _could_ do that. “No.”

“Where are you, really?”

“Kitchen.”

“Whose?”

“Mine. Baekhyun’s.” Chanyeol just put down the money. He’s lived here for four weeks. Was it five? He’s already at the third carton of eggs.

“Who is Baekhyun?”

“A friend.”

“A friend?” Because no one, and especially not at their age, makes friends in mere days like that.

“A childhood friend.” This is all he wants to say. Junmyeon is silent for now. He seems to drop it. And he does, simply wiping it away.

“So you’re staying for a while.”

“Yeah.” For at least a few more cartons of eggs, at least.

He’s is slippers, in Baekhyun’s bathrobe again, he’s gone shopping, and has a nice cutting board and knife. They’re his own, bought for him. Home. “Savouring unemployment,” he adds. The green onion is already chopped, but he goes through it with the knife once again, sloppily.

That brings Junmyeon back. “You can give us your resume the moment you land back.”

“Who says I want you to be my boss again? I’ve had _enough_ of you.”

“Whoa,” Junmyeon cries. “You’re really rude now, you know that.”

Chanyeol laughs. He turns a few of the eggs in the pot, not that they needed to be. “But I’d still like to have you.”

“Possessive,” Chanyeol hums.

“Yes.”

“It’ll be a while till you have me though.”

“Does it have to? You can work from there, too. I could give you some transcriptions.”

“That’s what interns do,” he says, because that’s what he did as an intern, too.

“And you don’t like that?”

He doesn’t falter. “I do,” he says. He would like to have something to work on. Would make all of this feel more like normalcy. Less like he’s just misplaced.

“Then it’s set?”

“How’s the pay?” Not that it matters. Chanyeol has saved up enough to not work for a few years at least. But he will never go down without a negotiation.

“As for an intern who never comes to the office.”

“I’ll take it, boss,” he says. So they have a deal. No doubt Chanyeol’s absence has caused stress on the other workers. He took on a lot. They need a bit of alleviation. And now Junmyeon kind of has the green light to hire someone new, too.

“Did you really just call me boss? Is there really no affection left between us?” Junmyeon sputters.

“Shut up,” Chanyeol laughs, Junmyeon laughs too, and Chanyeol keeps tending to his boiling eggs, in London.

 

 

 

 

“You coming?” Baekhyun asks, tugging on a tee, head poking into Chanyeol’s room to catch Chanyeol doing absolutely nothing.

Chanyeol didn’t go with him last week. He jumps out of bed.

On Wednesdays, Baekhyun goes to the antique bookstore. Timepiece. The name of the curly haired girl – and the owner - is Miranda. She’s the only worker there, climbed in a tall stool behind the tally, nose always in a book. She salutes both of them enthusiastically, grin long. When Chanyeol replies to her, the English spills smooth.

There are two old recliners at the very back, embroidered tapestry and wooden handles with exfoliated varnish in the middle, where the elbow rubs, and a few good holes with mops of grey fluff burst out. The springs insist on drilling into his ass and thighs, but Chanyeol doesn’t mind. It almost feels like a massage.

Baekhyun already has his stack of picked books by his side, cherry picked out of the big raffia sacks in the storage room. He skims through them, inconsistent, slowing down, speeding up. The ones he likes, he puts on his other side, labelled with a flick of his coloured pen – green today, a grading system of hearts, squares, triangles and circles. Chanyeol has yet to figure that out, for a heart doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a book he wants to get to as soon as possible.

Chanyeol doesn’t get books for himself. There aren’t any books that he wants. The ones he reads are from the ones Baekhyun already read, from his recommendations, from his stack.

But sometimes, as he grabs whichever from the sack, and looks through it, he thinks it’s something Baekhyun would like. And so, there’s a third stack, which contains solely Chanyeol’s choices for him. The surprise ones.

It’s a game of chance though, because he doesn’t understand all of the text. But not all of them are in English. He finds one in Italian, which is illustrated. One in Japanese – he used to know some of that, but it vanished the moment he stepped out of high school. He spends a few minutes with it in hand, until he recalls a few bits. He can read a few characters, a few words. Not enough to string anything cohesive together.

He puts it down and looks over at Baekhyun, shoeless, feet underneath himself on the recliner. He’s absorbed. He’s smiling. The book smile. Because Baekhyun draws a very specific kind of felicity from reading. The smile reserved only for this, sculptured of peace, delight, and wonderment.

It’s beautiful, in so many ways.

He suddenly gasps, and shuts the book, an explosion of dust alighting in the beams of dusk. “That was a good trailer. I can’t wait to read this.”

“Trailer?” Chanyeol asks, shifting in his seat. It seems one of the springs is hellbent on giving his ass another orifice.

“Books can have trailers too,” Baekhyun says, licking his lips. “I just have to make them myself.”

Chanyeol simpers. He was doing just that too. He just didn’t think of calling it a trailer. It’s cute. Especially how Baekhyun said it with perfect English enunciation, smack in the middle of casual Korean.

“You’re gonna read it too,” he says, grading it with a square, which he fills in, and puts it on the stack to his left. They stay there until it’s completely dark outside, and the letters disappear.

 

 

 

 

Chanyeol goes to the cloud, all the way back, until he finds the very first picture he got of Jongin since he made the account. It’s from six years ago. His hair is of a light brown, of a dark blonde, gelled slightly. Shadow pools in the cleft of his chin. His smile is but an insinuation in its shape, but vivid in nuance. A daily selfie, sent just before Chanyeol got to say he missed him.

He scrolls up. And up. And up. And up. Until he reaches the end. The very last picture of him.

His hair is dark, natural, not black, but of a brown that likes to play with the sun and scam the night. He’s smiling, teeth glinting, eyes narrow and puffy, dimples loud. In his hand, a fishcake, zig-zagged on the stick, red with sauce at the top. Sudden food cart breakfast. It was on a weekend. They were together.

Chanyeol wipes at his eyes and closes the app.

 

 

 

When Baekhyun goes to work, Chanyeol works too.

It’s research. Fact checking, reviewing precedents and past legislation, relaying the finding into writing. It’s laborious rather than demanding. A lot of typing and neck cramps. But it makes him feel normal again. He has a function again. He’s no longer the prisoner of heartache, and has regained verve and mobility.

It just feels like that. It might be illusory, but Chanyeol chooses to abstain belief from that. He’s working, and that’s all that matters.

He doesn’t have a desk in his room, the coffee table in the living is too low, Baekhyun’s desk is already too cluttered as it is – and Chanyeol wouldn’t infringe on his space like that anyway. So he sits at the kitchen table. A small pitcher with fruity, cold brew tea at his side – Baekhyun makes them the night before, now one for Chanyeol too. His forearm touches the pepper mill and the salt shaker periodically. In front of him, a few papers that he tore from one of Baekhyun’s spiral notebooks. Those are tinted too. Not white. But creams with a mood.

They all fit on the small table, no one is abandoned.

Junmyeon asks for constant reports of progress. _You’re a noob in training now_. And Chanyeol, honestly, wants to do a good job. Because what he’s doing is easing Junmyeon’s work load, and he can go home faster – _to kiss Heeyeon’s cheeks a billion times, god, I miss them_ \- and because it’s really not that hard, and Chanyeol needs to prove to himself that he can do this. This case is a trifle, an accusation over perceived embezzlement within a family deal, which is more of an ostentatious whine.

Though they don’t always work together because of time zones, but Chanyeol is happy to listen to the barrage of pings on his phone once Junmyeon gets around to checking the documents Chanyeol emailed him.

When Baekhyun is back, it’s almost eight. He didn’t even realize the whole day has passed. It’s almost like he’s not even here anymore, but home, and it would be Jongin coming in.

But it’s not Jongin.

It’s Baekhyun. With takeout. Breakfast takeout. French toast and berries. Because he didn’t have breakfast.

“It’s cheat day,” he says, the two bags swinging in one hand, while with the other he is trying to take his blazer off. Today was warm enough just for a blazer, no jacket, though it is a thicker one. Brick coloured, slightly washy at the nooks.

“What decides cheat day?” Chanyeol asks, shutting his laptop, and getting up to help him with the blazer. Baekhyun spins, putting the bags now, so both arms could be freed. Chanyeol hangs the blazer over the back of his chair.

He’s not aware of Baekhyun being on any diet, other than some nutritional common sense. Though the compass of that is not quite righteous either. There are things good for the body and some good for the soul, but those for the soul are just better.

“Catching someone cheating on an examination, of course,” he says with a scoff. “Not even subtly. Google translate open under the desk with full luminosity.” He laughs, somewhat fondly, as he undoes the top button of his shirt before he begins taking his box out of the bag.

“Of course,” Chanyeol mimics, procuring two forks and two knives for them from the drawer. “I’m surprised cheating day isn’t every day.”

“I’m too good of a teacher for that,” he says, head tipped back, nose mightily in the air. He scrunches it, then winks. He’s a chronic winker. Which is both dazzling and cringey. Chanyeol now thinks it’s more of the latter.

“Can’t refute that,” he says, sitting back in front of Baekhyun and passing him the cutlery. He already knows more than he thought he would. When Oliver came over the other day for his final lesson, he could already describe what he was cooking.

Baekhyun gives him some finger guns, mouth full, raspberry jam on his lips. “You’re in the best hands.”

Chanyeol smiles, and pushes the pitcher of room temperature tea towards him when he chokes on a piece of toast. Then he laughs, because Baekhyun chokes on the tea too. Baekhyun hits him under the table and steals a strawberry.

 

 

 

 

Tea, book, the bed, socklessness.

Baekhyun is not even functional if he doesn’t have his daily reading. Doesn’t matter when it happens, it just has to happen. Could be right after work, right before work, after waking up, before going to sleep, in the middle of the day, while the rice is cooking, while Chanyeol is working, during a commercial break. Three minutes, ten, an hour, two, three, a whole day, a whole night – _sorry, it ate me this time_. Sometime he gets spat out. There is only so much of the uncomfortable position he can take, because there has not been yet invented a comfortable reading position – _what the hell are those guys at Nasa doing?_  

Books. To be words, they have to be ink. To be pages, they have to be processed flora. To be meaningful, they have to be one piece of a taxidermied heart, church grammar and megalomaniac trysts.

Chanyeol reads sometimes too. He can’t tell if he likes it or not. Not all stories are fun. Some are tastelessly sensational, some palaverous, dragged, some are too tangled, too ambiguous, some plain boring, predictable, some soulful, gentle. At times, Chanyeol wondered what kind of story his own would be. The melodramatic kind, poorly constructed, a tad exciting, but mostly dull, constant, a dusty peace. 

If it were a book, Chanyeol wouldn’t read it.

Maybe Baekhyun would, because he reads anything and everything. It’s his own duty to find value in a book, because it took his resources – time and money and backache – and it would be stupid to waste that. Which makes all books worthwhile to Baekhyun. Because he cultivated himself in such a manner.

Chanyeol really can’t tell if he likes reading or not. If he finds a value in it or not.

Maybe he just likes being next to Baekhyun, doing the same thing, each in a separate universe, together, but apart, the rustle of pages, the scratch of his pen as he takes notes, the occasional gasp, snort, Baekhyun’s head on his stomach, Chanyeol’s head in his lap. Maybe Chanyeol likes that.

 

 

 

 

Chanyeol sees Jongin. Not even seeing at first. It was a crash, a catastrophe. Hurrying men are everywhere. Tall, sinewy men are everywhere. It’s a widespread stature.

They bump. Say sorry.

And it’s Jongin. Chanyeol sees Jongin. Words shorn on his lips as his eyes round.

Chanyeol gasps, air boiling in his chest, decollating him. But Jongin has already turned away, hand over his mouth, long legs running, while his gaze just holds Chanyeol for a little longer.

Then he’s gone. He’s not gone gone, he must have his car somewhere in the parking lot, Chanyeol could see that, could reach him, could grab him, could—

But for what.

He really ran away. Because it was Chanyeol’s wish to not see him again. Is this why he covered his face, so Chanyeol sees as little as possible.

It’s been over two months. Chanyeol thought he was okay. He thought he was doing better. Even good. But he doesn’t.

He returns his gaze towards the doors. He’s at the supermarket, picking up a few things from the list he and Baekhyun penned together the night before. He has two bags balled tidily into his hand.

He squeezes them.

That wasn’t Jongin. Because Chanyeol is in London, and Jongin has no reason to be in London. Where Chanyeol is. Because he didn’t want to be with Chanyeol anymore.

It wasn’t even him. Just someone similar. Not by much, not at all. He wasn’t even Asian, and Chanyeol—

 

 

 

 

“Why is everything about love?” Chanyeol asks after turning in bed for hours, trying to nap.

“Is there anything else everything should be about?” Baekhyun opens his yogurt bottle, licks the cap, throws it in the trash, and expects an answer.

Chanyeol doesn’t have one.

 

 

 

 

Given how his work schedule is delineated by Baekhyun’s, he now knows it by heart.

Mondays are lax – noon to five or six. Tuesday is full, nine to five, and possibly extra for the occasional meeting. Wednesday is fragmented, eight to eleven, and three to seven – Baekhyun sometimes comes home in that break, sometimes doesn’t, sometimes he asks Chanyeol to come meet him. It’s eating out day. Or grocery shopping. And of course, going to Timepiece, a few sandwiches in parchment paper, and a bottle of water in Chanyeol’s pocket, climbed atop the stabbing recliners, Miranda’s red hair shining in the sun. Thursdays vary, one when he’s gone the whole morning, and when he’s gone the whole afternoon. Chanyeol has a particular dislike for afternoon-y Thursdays. It’s when Baekhyun comes home the latest, most often pushing nine or ten. London doesn’t sleep, but for Chanyeol it’s slightly disconcerting to know he’s by himself through the dark. Friday is short, all of midday. Plenty of time for breakfast, for picking clothes a little nicer, for sipping his tea slowly, maybe reading a line or two from a book, and then he’s back just before dinner, ebullient and with a roaring stomach.

Today is Thursday. It’s almost ten, and Baekhyun is at the door. The key jiggling stops right as Chanyeol finishes sending the documents to Junmyeon and shuts his laptop. Baekhyun has a really fat keychain on it, a little corgi figurine, made out of a stiff, but slightly malleable material. Chanyeol is familiar with the sound of it hitting the wood of the door. Clank clank clank, then the glass of the bowl in the entryway, then the soles of his shoes scuffing the tiles as he chucks them off, then footsteps.

He can tell Baekhyun is tiptoeing. Chanyeol gets up from the table silently and walks to the end of the wall separating the kitchen from the living room, just to see him take measured little steps on the balls of his feet towards the bathroom.

“It’s not that late,” Chanyeol says.

Baekhyun jumps, turning around, hand on his chest, breath cut. The light in the living isn’t turned on – there is only the residuum from the kitchen, which is weak, doesn’t make it far, for it burned out recently and they bought another one of lower wattage. They blamed each other back and forth for this mistake for ten minutes.  

“The door to the bedroom is closed, so I thought…” he says. Chanyeol didn’t close it. It was because of the wind current. It’s getting warmer, quite rapidly, as it’s passing into June. He knows here it won’t quite reach the heights it could in Korea, but still warm, and Chanyeol has left a few windows open. He heard it fall shut.

Chanyeol leans against the wall, appraising Baekhyun. His bag is still across his shoulders, looking heavier than usual. His shoulders are slumped, just a bit, and his eyes are bemired, from being at his computer for so long and then driving in the dark – he really dislikes driving at night-time, no matter how bright it is.

Baekhyun suddenly – the genesis of it unfounded, and arrestive, and vivid, wholesomely so, eyes broken into lunettes - drops the bag, no remorse, right there at his feet. Sounds like something broke in there. And he just skips, faster and faster, only to dive right into the couch. He moans, whines, wiggles, and then at the end, a very advertisement-esque _aaaahhhh_ , as though there’s no greater joy in life than being spread out on the clumpy cushions.

Chanyeol can’t help a giggle. His voice is rough for he hasn’t spoken in a while. He almost did, by calling Jongin. But he mitigated that by leaving his phone in his room, far enough to discourage temptation.

He clears his throat and joins Baekhyun on the couch.

“Chanyeolitus pillowtus,” he says, words tangled on his tongue, but confident, as he waves two fingers towards Chanyeol, then promptly proceeds to slide his head into his lap, worming until he’s comfy, the hollow of his nape over one of Chanyeol’s thighs, and the back of his head over the other. Another _aaaahhh_ , and a smile that is but the crescents at the corners of his mouth. His eyes are closed.

“What was that?” Chanyeol asks.

“Wizardry. You’re a pillow now.”

“For good?”

“No, just for a little while. I’ll transform you back soon.”

“Back into what?”

“Baby boy,” he huffs, final.

And with that, he wiggles some more, sighs, and turns a bit towards Chanyeol. And stays. His breath slows down. It’s just somnolence, but not sleep. He’s awake, just not a lot.

As Baekhyun pulls at his shirt, he gets a whiff of his fragrance. It’s not just his cologne, not just the laundry detergent, but a mix of that, of his skin, his personality, his tea. Bergamot and confections. Marmalade. A herbaceous, caramelized sting to it.

The tip of his nose twinkles in the leftover luminescence. His lids. His lips. A whole galaxy within one person. Countless light years away, but also here, in front of Chanyeol, on the couch, legs crossed, wearing just one sock, while the other bare foot sneaked under the soft of his thigh to keep warm. Right here.

Maybe Chanyeol is the one light years away. Estranged in timelessness, spacelessness, into the crux of the naught.

Baekhyun nuzzles into his hip, and it tickles.

He sighs.

“How was your day?” he asks into the nook of his pelvis.

“Good.”

“How good?”

“Could be better.”

“I’m here now. I’ll take care of that.”

He nuzzles aggressively now, up into Chanyeol’s navel, where he _persists_. Chanyeol bursts into laughter, and tries to save himself from Baekhyun’s tickly wrath. To no avail.

 

 

 

 

Baekhyun’s new student for private lessons is Nayeon.

She’s ten. Baekhyun already went over to her house for the first two sessions, but now her parents dropped her off here for they have some errands to run too.

It’s warm enough for the lesson to take place in the balcony. Chanyeol observes him interact with Nayeon.

He isn’t anything like Jongin acted with his niece. Jongin treated them like kids, and he was their cool uncle. Spoiling them. Playing with them. Helping them with homework.

Whereas Baekhyun treats Nayeon like a friend. Truly, like a friend. No inhibitions. He engages her in dialogue. No papers for her, no grammar, no nothing on the table. Just talking. Fumbling together in a conversation. A mini adult and a full sized adult. She tells him what she did today, Baekhyun replies what he did today in turn. He makes up some things – _a puppy came to our door this morning_ \- and shares a conspiratory glance with Chanyeol over it. And keeps at it until she catches on and adds her own fantasy bits – _then I took my flying horse and went home to play_.

Chanyeol smiles. He’s working too. Tap tap tap at the keyboard. Baekhyun made tea for him too, but he hasn’t drunk it at all. The scent of it there is just pleasant.

Junmyeon is being rowdy in the little chat window, staring at the progress Chanyeol is making. Gathering receipts for now, masses of text, and a bit of discussion. It’s not heated enough that they need to switch over to voice talking – which always ends within a thick swamp of sappiness that makes Chanyeol unbearably soft. Chanyeol can withstand only so much before he gives in. He’s happy to have Junmyeon. An odd friendship that seems both parental – not like he hasn’t recommended himself as Park Junmyeon, Yeollie’s dad, _you’re only two years older than me, please_ \- and vaguely homoerotic, even though Junmyeon is as married as one could possibly be. Heeyeon gave him the green light to cheat on her with him, but only with him, and it seemed joking, until it was told too many times.

As Baekhyun talks with Nayeon about their days, Chanyeol talks about his with Junmyeon.

Every other sentence, he wants to ask about Jongin. Surely he saw him. Surely he met him. They’re friends too. Maybe they ate out a few times already. He wonders how he is. Does he wonder about Chanyeol too. Does he even care anymore. Was he _actually_ in London. Did Chanyeol see right.

He wants to ask. He types the beginning of the question over and over and over, and deletes it, every time, as he hears Baekhyun pronounce words in different accents, British, Australian, American, and letting Nayeon pick whichever she likes. The little crumbs of freedom in learning.

But still, today, he slips.

“Please pay my bills, boss,” he types into the chat. No water and no electric or gas, but his wifi and cable must be paid, because if not, they will cut him off, and it will be a pain in the ass to renew the contract with them.

And the bubbles come and go, a froth of uncertainty. “He did.”

Jongin paid the bills.

Is that a debt now.

“I’ll pay the following, employee,” Junmyeon says.

But it’s too late. Chanyeol is already thinking. And thinking. About him. Just about him.

Nayeon titters, and very poshly, with a medley of accents, says, “I hope this won’t happen again.” As though she has been wronged.

Chanyeol tries saying it the same way, under his breath. “I hope this won’t happen again.”

 

 

 

 

Chanyeol finally meets Sehun, Baekhyun’s colleague, whom he mentions most. He’s accompanying Baekhyun in the library today.

He's tall. Twiggy, broad. Of a babyish beauty spliced with a pronounced masculinity, acute angles and pillows. The thick of his voice a suavity, the tone a deviltry.

Chanyeol notices that now. When he was with Jongin this sense was benumbed, inhibited. There weren't any other beautiful people in the world other than him. They still aren't prettier than Jongin. But they’re pretty, and he can see it. Which is a start.

“Ah, should've bought one more,” Chanyeol says after the introduction have been made – both bows and handshakes - gesturing to the two coffees he put on the table.

“Nah,” Baekhyun breathes, waving him off, and reaching for Sehun’s paper cup which he just finished drinking. Water from the dispenser here, with the purple heart and the vignettes. Chanyeol has had a few cups of that himself. It felt slightly like theft, given Chanyeol doesn’t provide any funds for this institution.

As Baekhyun pours some of the coffee from his own cup into Sehun’s - a twirl of the wrist so there's minimal drippage, still, there is one which escapes, that Baekhyun licks off – Chanyeol settles into the chair across from them.

“Are you also a Korean teacher?” he asks, starting loud before hushing himself. They are, after all, in the library. Just a few arm’s lengths away, there is a student furiously scribbling down notes from a book, frown tight on her forehead.

Sehun shakes his head, nosing into the cup. He just sniffs it, then puts it back on the table. “I teach the history, not the language.”

“And in his free time, he also manipulates me into babying him,” Baekhyun intervenes, shouldering Sehun, to which he grunts softly, a smile breaking on his lips. He sips the coffee, which Chanyeol got from the café in My Bloomsbury, because he felt like taking a stroll. It turns out it’s only Baekhyun’s favourite, for Sehun grimaces.

“This is too strong,” he says, face wrung. “Hyeong,” he calls, looking directly, unfalteringly at Chanyeol, “get me milk tea next time. With honey.”

Chanyeol balks for a moment. At how direct he is. At the _hyeong_ , not even ten minutes after they met. As though he already has Chanyeol wrapped around his little finger.

And oddly, Chanyeol doesn’t mind that. Being owned like that, immediately, be given no say in it.

He chuckles, again, loud at first, before hushing himself. “Will do,” he says.

“Did we just adopt him?” Baekhyun says, mouth in his coffee. He’s almost chugging. He’s tired. He barely slept last night, because Chanyeol was feeling restless and couldn’t stop bugging Baekhyun for attention as he was reading. He put the book down and fought a little with Chanyeol, but the reading of it wasn’t cancelled, merely postponed, so he ended up staying up late to finish it.

Chanyeol doesn’t feel guilty at all.

Sehun replies before Chanyeol gets to. “You did.”

Chanyeol laughs again, just hushed, and Baekhyun’s own laughter echoes weakly into his empty cup. Chanyeol pushes his own towards Baekhyun, for which Baekhyun thanks him via a light brush of his calf along Chanyeol’s.

“So, _son_ , why are you here?” Chanyeol starts, redirecting his attention towards Sehun.

Sehun cringes, but he talks. He is a personage too, with a life, a past and a future, and a will to disclose it all. And Chanyeol wants to know. Chanyeol wants to know other people, who are pretty, and who aren’t Jongin.

 

 

 

They went for a jog. Impromptu, as they were supposedly on a _light stroll_ , as one does on a Sunday afternoon. It’s not good to stay in the house for so long. And not move for so long. Which is how they suddenly found themselves running. They were already pretty far from home, so it took a while. Added up, it must’ve been a good couple kilometres.

They are in unsuitable clothing. Pressed shirts and jeans. Chanyeol in his loafers. Baekhyun has trainers on, at least, kind of tall, cloddy soles, both hideous and endearing. They got unbearably sweaty, but didn’t give up. They ran through crowds, through narrow alleys.

They only took a little break when they felt close to passing out. It was in front of the window of a shop. Mannequins. Chanyeol set eyes on a belt – the kind of belt Jongin likes, thin, as thin as possible, but with some sort of decorative buckle. Not flashy, but something special about it. He almost stepped in to get it, before Baekhyun grabbed him by the arm again, “Come on, we’re not _that_ weak.”

Now they’re catching their breaths against the door, having just gotten in, throat parched, lungs aflame, braising in their own body heat.

“How is this supposed to prevent coronary disease, I feel like my heart is puking,” Baekhyun mumbles, legs jelly as he ambles forward, toeing off his shoes. Chanyeol follows him, panting unrestrained.

Chanyeol is on a diet of fattening up post breakup. He doesn’t quite care for himself right now. Like Baekhyun does, a baseline, a bit of care there. He was used to this with Jongin. They went to the gym together a few times a week, or did something at home. They had a bit of equipment. Getting old is not quite elegant, and it would be good to stagnate that just a bit.

But now he is out of shape. A lot. Not entirely, not exactly fluidic, but he is soft, creaky, rust stains past the nooks.

When he arrives in the kitchen, Baekhyun has already downed a huge glass of water, and turns to refill it and pass it to Chanyeol. Chanyeol drinks like he has never put water in his mouth before. A little burp follows, that Baekhyun tries to out-burp at once. Three fails, one success, smug face to the max. Chanyeol elbows him. Baekhyun elbows him back. It escalates in a little elbow fight, when they’re already out of breath. Burning themselves out. Nobody wins. They just give up, giggles rising as the feud dies down.

“You smell nice,” he says.

“If by nice you mean gross.”

Baekhyun steps close. It’s not a full step. A shuffle. Bunny soles on the tiles, and then he’s close. There’s a humidity around them, the sudoric aura, and Baekhyun breaches into it. There’s a scent to him too, biotic, of fabrics and flesh, and an energy.

“By nice I just mean…you,” he says, and he’s reaching out, hand out of Chanyeol’s sight in a second. He feels it against his neck then, from his nape to the front, stopping right under his Adam’s apple. He takes it away, and looks at it. Two fingers. Glistening. Which he just as suddenly presses to his lips. He licks them afterwards. A little smack. “Tastes pretty nice too.”

Chanyeol, uncomprehending, halts, processes. “Ew.”

“I don’t find it _ew_ , don’t shame me,” Baekhyun says. One more lip lick. “And it’s really nice, for real.”

It’s the post exertion high, they’re perched on a cloud, reaching beyond, where sanity can’t breathe. Maybe. Chanyeol feels challenged. He feels curious. He feels irked.

So he dips, and kisses Baekhyun’s neck directly, not through fingers. Just lips, but a drag, so they’re sopping with his dampness.

He pulls back, to find Baekhyun’s startled gaze on him. Chanyeol licks his lips. It has a flavour, though mild, barely identifiable as if it’s one of his own body, barely extrinsic, and the saltiness, which is also mild, a bit of a prickle at the tip of the tongue, before dissipating. Nice, indeed.

He doesn’t say it. Baekhyun’s smile is growing and growing, until there’s just the teeth left. And the sass. “Ew me now,” he says.

Chanyeol rolls his eyes. And where they are. They started something. This could end as a joke, or it could be something more.

Baekhyun is as close as he was before. They have their taste on each other’s lips, on each other’s tongues, high, the delirium of muscular fatigue, whilst the mind is a maelstrom.

They should kiss. Why not. Why not kiss when they could kiss. When they are already close enough to kiss. And wanting it enough to present it as a possibility. Baekhyun is staring at his mouth. Chanyeol is staring at his mouth.

Now it’s just waiting for someone to give in first. Waiting. Another challenge. It only allows for this desire to brew. It’s pure, untainted by other things – the circumstance that brought them here, their relationship, the physical attraction, and the availability. It’s the amalgam of fixtures that has Chanyeol’s legs pulling together to stifle the florescence of heat in his nethers. Then somehow, they’re closing in. Simultaneously, not one faster than the other. But steady, as lids fall flow, breaths turn crisp.

Then they kiss. Open and intrusive. To taste.

It maturates slowly. It’s noisy. They’ve already gotten used to brining lungs, now it just goes for longer and longer, before they breathe in.

Chanyeol pushes now, when Baekhyun gets closer. When they touch. Thighs astride, hips joined, and the friction light, leftover from their roaming hands, the alternation of their heads, the spin of fingertips, the press, indenting into each other.

Baekhyun walks with him. He walks obediently, not looking where. Chanyeol is distracted too, Baekhyun sucking on his tongue, and doesn’t make a straight pathway, but when he’s near, and Baekhyun’s back hits the door of the bathroom, they stop. Baekhyun mewls, exactly like a cat, as Chanyeol finishes the rapid swipe of his tongue over the inside of his lips, as Baekhyun closes down on it. It must tickle. A lot.

He looks to his side. Chanyeol looks too. The door.

It’s simple. If they enter, they’ll sleep together again. They could stop here, not go further, and this would be it, or go in there, wash up a bit, then finish each other off.

Baekhyun doesn’t say anything, but he feels his arm moving. Then the sound of the knob twisting, the door opening.

Chanyeol kisses him.

 

 

 

 

“Are you always like this?” Baekhyun asks, the smoke of his cigarette a veil over his face. It clears.

“Why? Did you get tired?” Chanyeol laughs, terse, a tightening flashing though his skin.

This is selfish. He imposed this dynamic, and while Baekhyun didn't reject it, in this fact alone there's an imbalance. Chanyeol almost considers apologizing.

“No,” Baekhyun cheeps. “Really not. I find it interesting. I've never been this way with someone. And the way you were today…”

The whole mood changed right after the door of the bathroom closed behind them. Chanyeol knew what he wanted right as the clothes came off.

And for Baekhyun to want to treat him like fuckmeat he had to be upfront, he had to be this excited. He had to be horny. He had to want it enough. Chanyeol was good at that. At touching him. And kissing him. He doesn’t think there’s a spot on Baekhyun he hasn’t kissed. A pane his tongue wasn’t over. Hand slipped between his legs everywhere. Just everywhere. His cock and his balls and his hole and then his ass too.

Baekhyun couldn't quite get on board with that. It was obvious. By how little he pushed. By how he slowed some procedures. By how his hands were everywhere, rubbing and soothing. He did his best which was enough.

Then outside the bathroom, Chanyeol was a puppet. Chanyeol wanted to not be Chanyeol anymore. Chanyeol wanted to be just a body, and not even all of it. A set of cavities. An apparatus for pleasure. Something like that. As he opened his mouth and asked Baekhyun to push in until not a bit of him was left outside. As he whined to press in until he fractured his skull and air was a luxury. As he turned around, bent over pulled his cheeks apart and asked Baekhyun to fuck him with lube, but no prep. No arousal there, no stimulation, no loosening. Entering him based only on the acceptance provided by his enticement. The fact that it’s not meant to be like that - just roll him over and enter him. It's careless. So careless.

And Chanyeol just needed carelessness. Because he was tired of care. He was tired of guarding because as much as Jongin hurt him emotionally, he tried his hardest to not hurt him physically either. If he ended up bruising him in any way he will then kiss it, apologize  a thousand times and then kiss it some more.

Baekhyun delivered what he wanted. But maybe it wasn’t what Baekhyun also wanted.

"No," he replies, "I'm not usually like this. It's new to me too."

He doesn't want to ask further. Maybe he knows. He surely knows. The depth of his insight is more and more apparent to Chanyeol, and whilst not revealing its contents, only a bottomless gap with all of it. It's obvious he understands. It must be from the reading. He's gotten good at reading things that aren't on pages. He knows how to read lips and skin and eyes and skies. He just knows.

"How are you usually then?” The smoke of the cigarettes blurs the bottom half of his face. The nub reflects slightly on the hill of his cheek. Blood orange.

"I give," he says. That should do. Because it means everything it should.

Baekhyun seems surprised, the tips of his brows lifting slightly. "I almost thought you dislike topping,” he says, because he just refused Baekhyun touching his cock at all. Paying any attention to his cock at all. He's oversensitive maybe. Prolonged inbred oversensitivity. For now. He just cannot think about being in someone else when he remembers all too clearly what it was like to be inside Jongin.

"No," Chanyeol says, mouth full of smoke. He can still taste Baekhyun maybe. It tasted oddly intense. As though infused with those herbs he likes. Teas and coffees. The bergamot. It's gummy. But pleasant.

Two times can be chance, but a third time is confirmation. “Maybe you’ll meet this Chanyeol who gives.”

“Oh, I think I did,” Baekhyun says, a dash cheeky. Small pattern with the cigarette, plaiting a curtain in the air. “No stranger there.”

When Chanyeol doesn’t want to be skinned by fragility he’s quite benevolent. It seems more like there are two people working together for the sole purpose of pleasuring one another. This wasn’t it. This was something else.

He had enough of his cigarette. He kills it halfway through, the scent of it dwindling. Baekhyun is still holding his, away from his lips. His leg bounces. Not of nervousness. It seems more like a spasm.

So Chanyeol does the one thing that feels right, and grabs his ankle – it’s lithe, he can wrap his palm around it fully – and brings it into his lap, and then over, onto the armrest of the chair, which he brings closer. Baekhyun winces at the cacophony of the chair legs scraping the flooring. But he gives. Chanyeol starts massaging his calf, then his thighs. They did all of this after that hell of a run.

“I let you cry in my arms for another man,” Baekhyun begins suddenly. “I heard you whisper his name when you were fucking me. Did you even know you said it? Just after you choked, you said Jongin, Jongin, Jongin.” How light. Like he is narrating. Not his own life, not Chanyeol’s, but someone else’s, whose story is worth telling. “I can always. Always tell when you’re looking for him, when something I do reminds you of him. I knew it all from the start.”

He doesn’t know why Baekhyun is telling him this. “You mean I wasn’t fooling you.”

“Why would you even be trying? Not like I don’t know where I took you from.” He laughs, lippy.

A bit more massaging, some diminutive yelps as Chanyeol presses into his muscles. It’s therapeutic. More so for himself than for Baekhyun perhaps. He kneads harder into his thighs, the muscle there firm. Baekhyun gives him his other leg.

“Does that bother you?” Chanyeol asks.

Baekhyun peers at him. His bathrobe is coming undone, hanging in a loop by the cordon around his waist. His chest is visible, the risen pane, and the rima of his sternum. He’s built nicely. Robust.

“Didn’t I just answer that?”

“So what if you know where you took me from,” Chanyeol says, palms tingling from the rub of the hairs on his skin. Baekhyun’s legs are really hairy. “Doesn’t mean you can’t be bothered by it.”

“I’m not. Because I can’t do anything about it. I’m no magical eraser,” he says, in English. Magical eraser. He bends over, coming closer to Chanyeol. “Though I wish I was. I wish…you felt better.”

And now Baekhyun scrapes his chair over too, taking his legs away, and he aligns the chairs so they’re next to each other, touching. His hand reaches under Chanyeol’s shirt.

Fingers sail over the clavier of his ribs, up and down, up and down, up and down, like he doesn’t realize he can’t stop doing it.

Usurp control and restraint from him, and teach him how to love anew. Is it Baekhyun who will do that. He seems strong enough. Skilled enough. It might just be.

Chanyeol peers at him. “Next time, maybe I’ll moan your name?”

“If even _that_ didn’t get you to moan mine.” Incredulity permeates his rebuttal, but it’s thin, but a wash.

“I promise, next time I will moan your name,” Chanyeol laughs.

Baekhyun pinches his tummy, cheeks blooming with kittenishness. “You better keep that promise.”

 

 

 

 

It’s the year end. Baekhyun is invited to the graduation ceremony.

It’s all in the early morning. Chanyeol watches him fussing around, munching on baby carrots that they bought only because they were on sale and “ _so fucking cute,_ ” Baekhyun squealed. It’s sweet. Succulent. Delicious. Baekhyun steals it from his mouth when he accuses him of seeming to enjoy it _too_ much. Who _even_ enjoys carrots that much.

He puts a suit on for it, gels his hair back and to the sides, showing a bit of forehead. He makes friends with his students, they’re dear to him. So he’s nervous as though it’s his own graduation. So he must look perfect.

He makes Chanyeol pick between his two suits right after he puts on one of them. The burgundy or the dark blue. Burgundy or dark blue. Burgundy or dark blue. He flings the hanger around.

“Burgundy,” Chanyeol says, which is the one Baekhyun is not wearing.

Baekhyun huffs, then changes, right there, throwing the other suit over Chanyeol’s outstretched legs on the couch. Chanyeol blankly watches his thighs and butt jiggle as he jumps into the pants. He puts everything on, including the bowtie, twirls, poses, the runway is his.

“Excellent choice,” Chanyeol praises himself. It looks good with his skin, the undertone of it a complement to the red. Baekhyun just pats his own butt, each cheek in turn, then makes finger guns at himself in the mirror.

“Nothing is stopping you from catcalling me, Mister Park,” he says, turning again to fix his hair. There’s nothing to fix. It’s in the exact same position as before.

Chanyeol does his best to catcall him, mouth full of carrots. Baekhyun titters. “Three out of five,” he rates him, then begins putting on his shoes.

“This will take a while,” he says. “Undergraduates. And then the master graduates. Then the Ph. D graduates,” he enumerates. “That’s a lot of people. And I have to stay though it all.”

He turns, picking up his phone. He’s ready to go. “If you make dinner, save some for me too?” he asks over his shoulder, pout high and plump.

As though Chanyeol even knows how to make dinner for one. “No,” he says, and throws him a carrot.

Baekhyun catches it, cusses at him, then is out the door, huge smile poked in the centre with the carrot.

 

 

 

 

He comes back long past dinnertime, a mountain of flowers in his arms, and a small bag hanging from his fingers. He calls for Chanyeol as soon as he steps in, and Chanyeol doesn’t even get to tell him where he is before Baekhyun pounces on him with the flowers, closing the lid of his laptop on his way, and making sure Chanyeol’s face sinks right into them. They’re gorgeous and fluffy, and Chanyeol inhales until he’s high, afloat in some paradise. When he resurfaces, and looks at Baekhyun, he can tell that he’s tipsy, by the waltzing glint in his eyes and the maudlin syrupiness of his gait. “Professorial perks,” he winks, before putting them all down. They spill over the dinner table, a party of colours burying Chanyeol’s laptop. Well. His work is done for the day.

It’s celebration time now. A dance, small, on music that is on the small flat TV in the living, and food from the bag he brought – which is chips and soda. Pringles and cola. Because he loves Pringles and cola. _I’m gonna die anyway,_ and then fits three whole chips in his mouth at once. Chanyeol offers to jog down the stairs and buy him another tube before he finishes the current one.

“Be quick, don’t make me miss you too much,” Baekhyun bellows after him. Chanyeol quickens his pace.

 

 

 

 

From now on he cannot schedule his work around Baekhyun’s classes, so he schedules it around Baekhyun reading.

The house is not in complete silence anymore. The rustle of the bed. Sometimes Baekhyun is just on the floor – _it’s better for my back_. He has tea too. Lots and lots of tea. And he goes grocery shopping, for Chanyeol. Though he’s not that good at picking vegetables. So they go together after a few disastrous trips. Pause in the middle of the day to gather ingredients for lunch. Then coming back, working some more, reading some more. Then it’s lunch time. And Baekhyun can peel onions now.

It feels like routine, but it’s not. If routine beams boring, if it means unsurprising, it’s not. Though there is repetition, it’s different, the constant is off, out of tune. Baekhyun might be sipping his tea and reading, but his reactions are different. His behaviours are different. He was teary eyed, and he laughed, and he was confused, and he was in awe, and a couple of them he threw against the wall, then patted the wall in apology. It’s the same thing, but not tiring. For lunch, they found favourites -fried rice, stew, and noodles, respectively are their go-to’s now. Baekhyun can season. And then throw in there something that shouldn’t be thrown.

He drags Chanyeol out. He wants to be out too, sometimes. He only knows the walls across their balcony, since it’s facing at the back, the narrow street below. It’s not a great view by any standards, but Chanyeol got used to it by now. He’s watching the vine grow over the lone garage tucked at the edge of the opposite building. It’s blooming now. White flowers. Baekhyun doesn’t know what they’re called. A nameless love.

But they have to get out too. It’s this blend of tourists, always, especially since summer started, and the residents, just a bit duller, a bit riverine and automatic in the motions. The tourists waddle, halt.

Baekhyun makes him order at restaurants. Then praises him by giving him the first bite off his own plate. Chanyeol had one tourist map on him though, they bought it at the airport, in Incheon, before leaving. Chanyeol found it at the bottom of the suitcase – they forgot about it completely. It is now in his pocket. He shows it to Baekhyun. “ _Nah, here it’s nothing special. Just a lot of waiting_.” Nose scrunch. What Baekhyun knows is not museums. It’s an old tiny movie theatre, run by two old grannies, showing movies from many, many years ago – they can’t afford to buy new ones. Just classics, maybe. There’s Titanic too. So they watch Titanic, getting in the hall forty minutes before they were supposed to just because that’s when they arrived.

Sometimes they dress, up or down, glorified pyjamas or to the nines, or sevenths maybe, sometimes fives. They get out, look left to right, no plans, no nothing. It’s gloomy or it’s sunny, windy or calm, barely raining, or heavily raining – Baekhyun treated himself with a very nice umbrella as soon as he arrived here – and it is indeed a nice umbrella. Big and sturdy. Chanyeol has the duty to hold it over both of them, as Baekhyun almost stabbed him in the eye with the rib tips. Then they go ahead, and don’t come back until the night is old.

 

 

 

 

Baekhyun jumps out of bed, marches up to him, feet thudding on the floor to break it. He clambers Chanyeol where he is sitting at the kitchen table, working, and kisses him, aggressively, on the temple. “I love this so much, oh god,” he says, before he runs back to his bed, dives into it, bruises it, and plunges right back into the book.

Chanyeol laughs in his wake, then keeps working, cheeks a bit strained. In his hands is one of the books Chanyeol picked.

 

 

 

 

Junmyeon meets Baekhyun. All of a sudden. After hearing all the Baekhyun this, Baekhyun that, they meet when Baekhyun just plops next to him on the couch as he’s having a video call with Junmyeon, a container of potato pancakes in his hold – Chanyeol made them last night, and a lot of them, for it is a pretty strenuous process, and there’s never too many of them. He promptly stuffs a full pancake in Chanyeol’s mouth, waving excitedly to _Chanyeollie’s boss._

Junmyeon laughs, and afterwards, Chanyeol has no idea what’s happening, other than Baekhyun working his magic and getting Junmyeon to _love_ him.  

 

 

 

 

“You’re sleeping with him, aren’t you?” Junmyeon asks the moment Baekhyun leaves the room with a “Bye, Chanyeollie’s boss.” But it’s barely a question, more like just asking for assurance.

He did. They just did. A few days ago.

“How did you know?” Chanyeol asks. He asked this before, days after Jongin broke up with him. It seems to be a question reserved for veiling— something.

“I’d do it too,” Junmyeon says, wearing the characteristic look of mild gay panic. It then clears off as fast as it’d came. He licks his lips, looks away, his suit for today is nice – all of them are – but it’s jollier. Pinstripe with alternating hues of purple. He looks good in it. He’s wearing the watch Chanyeol gifted him – _very original_ , _Park_.

He’s wondering though. Why is it so obvious. Why it sounds like such a given that Chanyeol would end up sleeping with Baekhyun.

But at last, Junmyeon choses not to answer it. Perhaps it’s hard to formulate, to describe, being that Chanyeol feels the very same.

“Just be careful. Since it’s not something you do by yourself.”

And he knows, from the get go, exactly what Junmyeon means, he knows it, well, immediately, but he doesn’t articulate it for himself. He lets it be gauzy, adrift, unnamed. He just lets it be. Because at the moment, it doesn’t seem to be a real possibility, and because Chanyeol doesn’t feel like he’s really doing anything to egg that, to construct a step for it to root into. It’s phantasmagorical, possible by nature, but not by circumstance.

“Sure, dad,” Chanyeol says.

“Good baby,” Junmyeon replies, mockery as high as sincerity. Chanyeol snorts, and shuts the chat in his face.

He looks at the table, where Baekhyun left the empty pancake container. He left 4 for Chanyeol and 3 for himself even though he was the hungry one. Chanyeol takes it to the sink.

 

 

 

 

Baekhyun sometimes has his private lessons with Nayeon in the library park at SOAS. And sometimes, Chanyeol comes with him.

Now Nayeon pulls Chanyeol on her side of the bench, as Baekhyun is talking to her parents - he’s laying it thick both on the praise and on the teasing.

“Ajeossi, it’s hard for you too to make friends?” she asks, the lopsided bow in her hair wagging.

Chanyeol laughs at her seriousness, before he realizes he’s only made one. Only needed one. And it was there to begin with. He didn’t have to do anything.

“I don’t know,” he replies.

She scoffs at him, “You’re useless.” Then she gasps, realizing there’s a section in her homework sheet she forgot to fill in.

 

 

 

 

On the days he thinks too much of Jongin, Chanyeol slithers into Baekhyun’s room, which is wherever Baekhyun is, sometimes the living, sometimes Chanyeol’s bedroom, and just works from there. He’s reading, or writing up Chanyeol’s little worksheets, or online shopping, watching shows on his laptop, playing games – _nothing too serious, I’m afraid if I get really into gaming, I won’t get out of there_ – and he sits, on the bed, alongside him. Baekhyun, even in his silence, has a loudness, has a power to shut down everything else.

The first time, he asked, if he could sit, if he could stay, if he didn’t bother him. And Baekhyun teased him, _of course not_ , but welcomed him, pulling up the thin sheet, and allowing Chanyeol to slip under.

And they sleep. Comfortably. Oddly so. The beds are big enough, the sheets are soft, the pillows are fluffy, the mattress is good. But they still could have not slept well together.

But they do, the presence of each other acknowledged, but not abused – their legs don’t tangle, their hands aren’t thrown over each other, but their shoulders touch. Baekhyun’s forehead to his chest. Back to back and ass to ass. Baekhyun’s small cold feet sometimes seeking warmth between Chanyeol’s calves. Chanyeol needing to stretch out a little more, and Baekhyun permitting him to touch whatever. Baekhyun’s nose ending up at his nape, in his hair, Chanyeol’s face on his shoulder, on his chest. It’s a peaceful slumber. Neither agitated, nor dream ridden. Neither cold. And neither lonely.

 

 

 

 

They go shopping for new clothing, because thus far Chanyeol has been only wearing the things that weren’t explicitly Jongin’s. Which is not enough of them. And also, it’s getting warmer and warmer, and while it doesn’t reach a high of discomfort, they aren’t exactly suited for the weather. And because Chanyeol rarely gets out of the house, he thought he would be fine, but Baekhyun isn’t having it. Plus, he needs some for himself too.

They end up with new shirts and pants, and then wine, boxed wine, but pricey enough to not be shit. White wine, semisweet. They pour it into tall water glasses, then park themselves on the balcony.

“You’re like…you’re so bright,” Chanyeol says, suddenly noticing it under the light of the scented candle he just bought on impulse. Aubergine, sandalwood, and the unmissed bergamot. Baekhyun has his face over it, inhaling steadily. The flame flickers over his face. It’s getting dark, fast, and there is no other light source.

Baekhyun’s eyes flutter. He’s seeing a happy Baekhyun. He’s mischievous. He’s a little silly. He’s earnest. Eager. To please to do well, to be there, be liked, to bring happiness. Is there anything more admirable, is there anything purer. And then there’s the facial grease - by evening, his nose is always a little beacon of light, his inner cheeks too, his forehead too.

“Great discovery, Newton,” he says.

“I think it was Edison,” Chanyeol’s brows twist.

“Great discovery, Edison,” Baekhyun amends, not missing a breath.

Chanyeol snorts, lips stretched, then drinks some of the wine. Baekhyun alternates between drinking, sniffing the candle, and checking Chanyeol’s own homework, squinting as he holds the small slip of paper it up the flame. It was grammar today. Conjugation. Past participle, or something.

Baekhyun shakes his head, puts it down, explains to him the two instances he got wrong. He does it backwards. First tells him to do it, then explains the notion. _Because language is an instinct, and should be treated as such._

It’s easy to remember. There isn’t a thing Baekhyun had to explain to him twice. “You really have a gift for this,” he says, after Baekhyun managed to stuff something in his head that should be chiefly memorisation, and shouldn’t be in his power.

Baekhyun curls up with a blush, held in its roseate tendrils. He frees himself of it by dipping his mouth right into his wine glass. He slurps until it can no longer be slurped.

“I think you have a gift for law too,” he says, humming, lips stained.

“Nobody has a gift for law,” Chanyeol huffs immediately.

Baekhyun balks. “Did you really have to burn yourself like that?”

“I think the only one burning is you,” he says, jutting his chin towards where Baekhyun’s cheek is dangerously close to the flame. He imagines it catching, but no screams, no embers, just a peaceful melding. Baekhyun as a fire conjurer. Or light conjurer. Why does that sound so fitting.

“Good catch, Newton.” He puts his palm against his cheek to cool it from the near tragedy it just suffered.

Chanyeol chokes his laughter into his wine, but keeps drinking, working around the achy jab in his throat. It’s a wine that can be both sipped slowly, as there is a depth of flavour to it, and chugged too, for it has a lightness, a dilution. Chanyeol chugs. Just a few gulps.

He puts the glass down, not quite empty – he still has a few sips in there, and stares at Baekhyun, who is still nuzzling again into the candle like he didn’t just get burned.

“What about your friends?” Chanyeol asks. Because he’s been thinking about it all day.

“You mean you?” He puts on his glasses that he left on the table. He doesn’t have any sight deficiency, but he uses them for the computer. They have the green reflex on them. And maybe just because he likes them as an accessory. He peers over the frames at Chanyeol.

“Aside me. From home—” which is not the same as for him – to Baekhyun, _here_ is home. “From here or from Korea, I mean.”

Chanyeol doesn’t have that many himself. He has Junmyeon. And he had Jongin. Jongin was his lover first, and his friend second, but mostly, was both of these at the same time, equally. That’s hard to replace. Too hard. So he feels this emptiness. But how is it to have never had it in the first place.

“I’ve never met anyone who isn’t my friend,” he says.

Chanyeol mulls over that just for a few seconds. And then he gets it. He just gets it.

Baekhyun, an assembly of allurements, over-licked lips, a million dimples, a vivace heart, thighs plush as the heavens. Baekhyun, kissed by fire, infused with sandalwood and bergamot, smirk an ambuscade.

Of course.

 

 

 

 

His mother calls. Chanyeol ponders not answering. Thus far, he’s been texting her, and his father too. A thing here and there. Pictures and birthday wishes. A few questions about how to improve a certain dish. And they’d asked when he’s coming over for a meal. Going fishing. A festival. Chanyeol dodged by saying he’s busy. Not a lie. Busy just means he was doing something. Which he was. Working mostly. Or thinking about Jongin. Or teaching Baekhyun how to sauté vegetables. He was busy.

But now it’s a call. Chanyeol accepts it.

They know.

And they jump right into joking about him getting married, _should I set you up? I have a few friends._

They joked like this about Jongin too. They loved Jongin.

Chanyeol remembers being so fearful to come out to them, not because they ever disregarded or mistreated his feelings and decisions in any way, but because it was a topic he had never known their opinion on. He had no idea what to expect. It could’ve gone badly, it could’ve gone very badly, it could’ve gone very _very_ badly. But it also could’ve gone well.

Which it did. For the moment Chanyeol called Jongin his boyfriend in front of them, his mother immediately stuck herself to Jongin’s arm and proclaimed that she’s just too grateful to have this fine young man in her family, and that she’d be rather mad had he _not_ brought Jongin.

But now it’s as though he’s forgotten. Immediately stepped over in lieu of a new future -  _Maybe a woman, so we could do the actual wedding?_

And though he had never experimented in any way, Chanyeol thinks he might be bisexual. Just sexual. No heteroromantism. He doesn't think he would ever love a woman, but he does find them sexually appealing. However, this is not a combination it would ever be ethical to pursue, so he has no desire for it. And maybe he's not at all. Either way, there will be no wedding.

They ask about his job, of course, because Chanyeol is a fugitive in another country, with a profession that doesn’t adapt well on other lands. It’s fine. Junmyeon wouldn’t fuck him over.

“You can adopt him as your temporary son in the meantime,” he says. He is already, though, with papers too, which they made in jest at a new year’s party they’d organised amongst themselves. Junmyeon got it slightly legalized. They’d been mutually adopted, each with four parents. Except he didn’t tell them yet.

“When are you coming back?” his father asks, almost annoyed. He’s missing him. His tone for missing is always reproach. Which is why the very first thing he does when he sees Chanyeol is to scold him for not seeing him _sooner_.

So he responds just to that. “I miss you too,” he says. He turns. He’s in his bed. They bought new bedsheets. On his bedside table, Baekhyun’s tea mug, forgotten there after he came and rolled about in his bed reading, _for a change of scenery, and mattress_. In his pillow, the scent of Baekhyun’s hair, or his own, it’s not a difference anymore, for Chanyeol converted to Baekhyun’s brand after he advertised the fuck out of it, along with a demo of how silky his hair is – _feel it!_ The shower gel too. The shaving cream too. The same. Not even with Jongin had he shared the same things, the preferences of their skin didn’t quite match there.

So home, for now, maybe is where his shampoo is. Where his shower gel is.

What’s wrong with there. There’s nothing wrong with there. No place he would run from.

“I want some fridge magnets when you return, brat” he says. Resignation. He gets it too. His mother chimes in the background. “Many fringe magnets!” because all trips must be concluded with some fridge magnets. Chanyeol came here to fix his relationship, that should’ve been the culmination, but he could return with a few fridge magnets too, to add to the mosaic of them on their fridge, which has been building up ever since they bought it.

“I won’t forget,” Chanyeol says.

 

 

 

 

It’s Saturday. Saturday evening. Baekhyun is picking the clothes off the drying rack slotted under the opened windows in the living. It smells nice. Maybe too nice, combined with the dash of incense Baekhyun spread around. Being here made him hyperaware of scents.

Chanyeol folds his own clothing, while Baekhyun folds his. They can’t mix up the pieces, the way he had with Jongin. No telling what was whose based on the size or style. Here is a bit of confusion too, but more about what was borrowed – Baekhyun giving him sweats that he never liked anyway, it was never said it was for good, but he doesn’t want them back anymore. Now they’re Chanyeol’s Baekhyun sweats. And a few tees. And a quilted jacket.

They have different folds, and different ways of pairing their socks – Baekhyun makes whole balls of his, gathering them in the basket of his folded legs, while Chanyeol only hooks the openings into each other.

This is when Chanyeol notices the pants sitting on top of Baekhyun’s unfolded pile. The shorts. He has a sudden flashback, bright, crisp.

“Is this what you wore that night when…” _when I cried_.

Baekhyun halts, stretching the pants out over his face. “Oh, so you remember,” he cheeps.

“I didn’t, until I saw them.” Chanyeol makes to grab them. Baekhyun hands them over. They melt into his palm. The material is soft, flowy, a heap, but structured in its expanse. He cannot tell what it is, seems natural, or synthetic, perhaps a mixture. But they are the very same black shorts he remembers, with the golden trim around the waistband, and the perforated pattern around the leg fringe. One small, faux pocket at the back, contoured with the same gold thread, but otherwise solid. Plain, but expressive.

“I don’t remember how you looked in them,” he says then. He says it as though it’s an askance. And it is. They could— “I just remembered the pants.”

Baekhyun scoffs. He gets up, carefully moving his sock balls to the side, drops his sweats, and puts on the shorts.

Those three seconds are what changes them, between the zipper being undone, and the zipper being done, pulling the fabric tight on him, shaping it by its will, whilst also being a curated version of his curvature. The eminence of his crotch where it should be – they’re women’s pants, not meant to adjust to that. And the bunching of his underwear. It’s right between his legs, most of it, texturing it, and Chanyeol fixates on it.

They cover just a bit more than a pair a boxer briefs would, which he has seen Baekhyun in, plenty of times – _why put on clothes when you could not put on clothes_.

But it’s odd how much more there is to this, that extra margin at the legs, and the cinching of the waist, as it does seem to go higher.

 “I usually go commando with these,” he says, as an explanation to Chanyeol’s prolonged fixation. His voice is mollescent, but sweetened, a bonbon of what it was previously. His hands smooth down the area, uselessly, just disrupting the waves that stay right where they are.

Chanyeol looks up. At his tee. Was it a tee that he wore then. Was it a button shirt. One of those thin turtlenecks of his, that he has a few colours of, and can wear year-round, occasion-round, complementing any time and any place.

But now he has his white tee on, which is grey some places, yellow some others, and the one big red stain on his chest, courtesy of the ddeokbokki he dropped on himself last night. And even like this it’s just…incredibly alluring.

He thinks about how none of this attracted him that time. Because Chanyeol wasn’t looking for anyone who wasn’t Jongin. Chanyeol only clung to the first person who allowed him to cling – it was new, he just wanted to initiate, he just wanted to have his hands on someone, briefly, and know there was no chance of rejection.

Baekhyun turns. His thighs. His ass. The enhancement of his waist disturbing the proportion, bringing a sensuality to him that is immensurable. Maybe this is the first time that Chanyeol sees Baekhyun as attractive, as beautiful, as seductive, as truly _erotic_. Because Baekhyun is really really beautiful. While there is a dignity to it, a sophistication. His ass a bit flattened by the material, and the fit around his thighs, the little cut outs on the perimeter of the pant openings revealing just a bit more skin.

“Oh,” Chanyeol breathes. His body tingles, everywhere. Goosebumps, and something like fear. He should run away from this. Is Baekhyun in a stained tee and short shorts that dangerous though.

“Did you really go out like this? Just like this?” a pause, to appraise. “It was cold.”

“Oh no, I have a coat. A long coat just for the raunchy days.” He puts a knee on the sofa, just aside Chanyeol, whose lap is still full of to be-folded clothes. “It keeps me pretty warm. And covered. I really couldn’t walk like this though the neighbourhood.”

Shyness. Because while raunchy, it’s not enough to make him immune to it. And he has seen that coat. The sapphire wrap coat, that was indeed very long. On Baekhyun, it perhaps reaches all the way to the floor. Perfect to hide this.

“I had all of this leg exposed, and you didn’t even care,” Baekhyun says, yet again adjusting himself. “I’m wearing the grandpa undies, that’s why,” he explains in a small voice, digging in there.

Chanyeol looks at his legs.

“Can I touch them now?”

“Well, you are a little overdue, so…” Baekhyun replies, words wispy.

So he does. Baekhyun stands in front of him, and Chanyeol touches his legs. He’s had those legs against him, above him. Massaged them. He knows them, but perhaps he never really met them, for they feel novel under his touch.

When Baekhyun puts hands on his shoulders, it’s a sign to keep going, not to stop. Chanyeol edges on his ass, right at the border of his thigh, where there is a fold, a droop of the cheek onto it. It’s soft. He fits fingers into it, then spreads his palms.

“There was glitter too, wasn’t there?”

“Yes. I have a body oil which has some flecks too. I use it for dry skin.” And then as Chanyeol’s hands come forward, right there, where the hills of his inner thighs meet, where it’s the softest, the most intimate, the most alluring, Baekhyun continues. “It isn’t super shiny though. I’m surprised you noticed it.”

He did. Boy with glittery legs. His eyes just caught on it.

“It’s the thing I remember best.”

“Too bad I don’t have it on now, I was too lazy after my shower.”

“I don’t think I want to relieve that,” says Chanyeol. He hooks fingers underneath the waistband, just to tease the tension of it. It’s tight. The tee falls over again, and he pushes it back up. “I wasn’t at my…greatest then.”

Baekhyun breathes out, a sigh, perhaps, or just a leaden breath. It has a vacillation, its conclusion spun out, euphonic. He leans in, hip falling into Chanyeol’s palm.

Chanyeol looks up at him.

“You really just…dropped on me. And wept.” Baekhyun’s hand infolds his jaw, fingers of feathers. “It kind of scared me. It was all of a sudden after, you know, we danced for a while. Or I danced on you for a while. You were moving with me but that wasn’t really dancing,” a bit of a stress, hauteur, to ridicule Chanyeol’s dancing skills. Chanyeol is aware that he’s disastrous at best. He placates it with a sweep of his fingers along Chanyeol’s nape. “I only kept doing it because I recognized you, at last, and I thought you recognized me too.” A low, reduced chuckle. “You were too drunk for that, I figured, only after you started speaking,” the inhale following tells he would’ve spoken further, but it’s cut off, held under his tongue. His lids flitter, strung by a conflict.

“What was I saying?” Chanyeol asks. “I don’t remember.”

He doesn’t want to say it. There’s a flinch, the words swallowed, never to be spoken. But Chanyeol is curious. The lisle of his recollection breaks right after his third glass of whiskey. Then there are just scraps, transitions, the glitter, the shorts, the onerous, calcified loneliness, more whiskey, and then just being lost. Truly lost, like there was no place that was even to be found, like he wasn’t even from the right world, like he had to tear into a reality that wasn’t his, and find the genuine one. One of the most unsettling sensations he’d ever experienced.

Chanyeol wants to know. He massages into Baekhyun’s hip, almost unkindly, for Baekhyun squirms just a little. “Tell me.”

Baekhyun’s tongue is in his cheek, lips merged. Then he speaks. “Love me. Love me. Love me.”

No impersonation. It’s too strong, too personal, intrinsic almost, the way Baekhyun says it, gaze unwavering, a confession on its own.

Something in Chanyeol’s chest decomposes, spreads sour throughout him. It’s seriocomic though, because Chanyeol huffs, begrimed with a mirth that comes from such a deep place of self-pity that it cannot be otherwise. He really was like that. Desperate to be loved. And desperation is so, so ugly, a hideousness like no other, that presents him more like a gash than a functional person. Baekhyun met him again when he was just that.

“You never said his name,” Baekhyun continues, tone regardful, “But I could tell you weren’t asking that of me.” 

But the way Baekhyun said it – like he was—

“I lost you in the crowd afterwards. I don’t even know how, one second you were in my arms and then you were gone, nowhere to be found. I really worried so much about you. Did you even realize how drunk you were?” Chiding, irrefutable, but clement. “You could barely stand.”

“Sorry,” Chanyeol says. He doesn’t like people worrying about him. Worry is a cancerous affliction. “I,” frown. Because he really doesn’t remember anything about that. If it was by foot, or taxi, or some odd hitchhiking. Teleportation. He doesn’t know the means. “Somehow got back to the hotel.”

“It was so far though,” he counters. “I only realized after you told me where you were staying.”

Chanyeol shrugs. He doesn’t remember how far he went before he got into that club, which is not because of the black out, but just the fray of time – this happened months ago. And they haven’t talked about it past that meeting, over rucola and mozzarella. They ate there a few more times since. The burger is actually good. “Miracles do exist, I guess,” he says.

Baekhyun smiles. The angle of it is new. It emphasises the curve of his mouth, the high point of it, and the droopy ends. “I’m glad you made it in one piece.” His hips sway again, and Chanyeol just now realizes that he’s very close, his legs parted for Baekhyun to stand between them, shins touching the edge of the couch. And he’s in the shorts. Beauteous, and voluptuous, and with the funny pouch of crinkled fabric around his crotch.

Chanyeol titters. For this situation and for the one that’s passed. For how miserable he was then and how tranquil he feels now. His lap still hosting a mountain of unfolded laundry, and Baekhyun’s hands on his shoulders.

“I’ll go back to doing what I was doing,” he says, the weeping and the _love me_ left behind.

“Not gonna stop you,” Baekhyun chimes, doing a tiny twirl of his hips.

So Chanyeol is touching him as Baekhyun keeps folding. They’re admixed, Chanyeol feeling him up little by little. “I don’t mind doing your chores in exchange for this,” he says, working on Chanyeol’s clothes. He doesn’t have many anyway. He balls Chanyeol’s socks the way he balls his own, not the way Chanyeol does it.

He likes being touched. Chanyeol skirts about his ass. Because full on contact, a kneading, is forwarding this into a territory that is vague. Perhaps unwelcomed. He keeps astray, light, though he sees the way the softness accepts the sinking of his fingers.

“All done,” Baekhyun says. Chanyeol looks to the side, at the short tower of his own clothes, shirts and pants separate, house clothes together. It’s the tallest tower of them all.

“Thank you,” Chanyeol says, palms around the thicker section of his thighs. It’s gratifying to feel that he can barely cover half the circumference, even if his palms are big.

“Well, not like I did it for free,” he says, grabbing the edge of his tee and pulling it over his head. He throws it to the side. The stain will be there forever, but it will fade out until just the nostalgia of it remains.

Like this though, Chanyeol can see his waist properly, how tiny it is compared to the width of his hips. And see his chest too, the abrupt widening from the narrowest point to the breath of his shoulders – it’s drastic, truly. He’s not only curvy, but he has these contrasts that are so pleasing to touch, and so pleasing to see. And now Chanyeol just wants more.

He rounds his arms around his waist and touches the zipper. It jingles. Baekhyun smirks at him, partly questioning, partly daring. Then he nods.

Chanyeol unzips them, and begins to pull them down. But with his grandpa undies, it’s impossible not to grab it too, and at first he tries to keep that back up. Baekhyun giggles, distant, as though from another story, a vaudeville, and winds his arms around Chanyeol’s neck, forearms on his shoulders, getting even closer. And closeness is agreement, is permission, so Chanyeol stops trying, and just pulls everything off, his shorts and his underwear. There is resistance up until his mid-thigh, after which they fall to the floor, covering his feet.

“Finally,” Baekhyun breathes, stepping out of the coil of vestments. Now that his tee is gone too, he’s fully disrobed.

Chanyeol looks ahead. Baekhyun’s cock is right into his face. And because there is a cock in his face, he will look at the cock in his face. It’s soft, discoloured, no signs of interest. It makes Chanyeol smile – that after all the touching he has done, regardless of the meaning of it, the area and brand of it had high chances to kindle him some way. And given how urging he was for Chanyeol to do it, how much he kept pressing into it, he thought it would be of sexual nature. But it’s not. Baekhyun just likes to be touched, without any nexus to carnality.

Baekhyun bends to pick them up, underwear thrown where the tee is, to seed the new laundry mound, and pants folded and placed on one of his own towers. “Should leave these at the top. Might need them soon.”

Chanyeol looks up at him. He’s smiling, soft, tiny. “Feeling like unleashing your inner strumpet again?”

Baekhyun holds back a giggle, just for the sake of the insouciant façade. “Indeed, that might happen pretty soon. I haven’t done it in a while.”

He returns, a twist of his body, and now he’s just a bit farther. A few breaths maybe.

Chanyeol can see him better now Fully. Again not like he hasn’t seen it all, but it’s as oddly new, as it is familiar, and dear.

“So what did you get me naked for?” he asks. His sack jiggles every so slightly. His balls are quite low, which means very bouncy. And bouncy is a bit mesmerizing. But he manages to look up, a little, and there he meets his tummy. The monticule of plushness on his lower stomach, and higher up, there is muscular definition, linea alba deep.

Chanyeol puts hands on it, on either side, and squishes it lightly, so it puffs over his grasp. In the middle, his belly button, flattened out a little. It looks like a mouth. Like his own mouth, droopy corners and all. This is a stupidly joyous discovery for Chanyeol, because he begins laughing. “You have your face on your tummy too,” he says, squashing a bit harder. Baekhyun is shaking with unsaid amusement, but he manages a very convincing scolding, as he slaps at Chanyeol’s hands.

“And whose fault is all of this? It was all flat before you barged in and fridge shamed me.” A tap of his foot. “You should take responsibility, Mister Park.”

“What kind of responsibility? Financial?”

Baekhyun tsks. “Kissy responsibility.”

Chanyeol huffs, but kisses him, at once, hungry for it, mouth empty, and ready to be filled.  He goes up, suctioning on the skin, licking, biting softly, until Baekhyun – rubescent, breath a staccato - grabs him by the hairs at the back of his head and drags him up, kissing his mouth, febrile, incited.

It grew slowly, or fast, but Chanyeol’s tongue is soaked with the taste of Baekhyun’s skin, of his neediness. He tastes good.

The gyre of his lips, the nips. He has a way of kissing that is so sincere, giving himself entirely into it, his own pleasure as important as Chanyeol’s, by now, his technique incorporating his own likes, and Chanyeol’s. It’s attentive, while being quick, instinctual, but a cultivated reflex.

These kisses aren’t a hoax. They’re not truthful, not coming from a place of love, but one of desire, which is not a hoax. Chanyeol tries to drown in the shallow of it, be swept into the bed of rocks at the bottom, going deep to make sure he cannot breathe.

Chanyeol grabs at his ass, lifts, and Baekhyun comes along, weight on Chanyeol, little moan in his ear.

“Bed,” he says. “Bed.” And Chanyeol doesn’t even understand the word, but he understands the command, and complies, kissing Baekhyun into his bedroom, step by step, as Baekhyun’s hands are draped over his shoulders, lips putty under Chanyeol’s tongue.

He lays down, Chanyeol after him, hips astir under his palms. His hair fans out around him, the halo of a devil, lips worn. He cups Chanyeol’s cock through his pants.

“What do we do this time?”

“I wanna ride you.” Chanyeol says. Because he feels this time, Baekhyun shouldn’t do much at all.

“Ride me. But finger me a little first.” Chanyeol would love that. “Deal?”

“Deal,” Chanyeol says, signing it with another kiss to his lips.

 

 

 

 

“What about you?” Chanyeol asks, playing with the lighter, clicking it open and shut, open and shut. “Your demons?”

Now that their first meeting was brought up again, Chanyeol feels exposed. He feels like he talks too much about himself. Like what Baekhyun knows about him is not nearly as much as what Chanyeol knows about Baekhyun.

What he knows about the current Baekhyun is superficial. His habits. Tastes. Speech manners. How he likes to do his hair. The puppy noises in his sleep. The scent of his books. His penmanship.

All of these amount to something. But there are still some gaps there. To his eyes, Baekhyun is made of blind spots.

Baekhyun’s bunnies pestering Chanyeol’s bears to play, feet quick and teasing on Chanyeol’s. They try to eat each other, to caress each other, a battlefield of the fluffiest.

Baekhyun hums, long, jocund, in obvious avoidance. “I drink too much tea. It's staining my teeth.” He smiles big. Very big. Then opens his mouth so Chanyeol can see all the way to his molars.

Chanyeol’s bear beats his bunny, holding it down under his foot. The bunny thrashes, but it doesn’t manage to break free.

It's raining. Here it is soft, but from afar, thunder echoes.  

Chanyeol doesn’t ask more. He could press, but he doesn’t want to. Whatever it is, it must be said on Baekhyun’s own accord.

The cigarettes burn between them for a while longer, the streams of smoke tying in a pirouette.

“I almost became a dad at some point,” he says, “Does that count?”

“I got the chills.” Hairs standing on end on Chanyeol’s forearm. Depending on the age, and circumstance, that could’ve been good news, but Chanyeol has an inkling it was anything but.

“God, me too,” Baekhyun laughs, breaking free. His bunnies then just nestle between Chanyeol’s bears, coexisting in a little cuddle. “It was at the worst time, and for the worst reason.”

Chanyeol flicks the ash of his cigarette in the tray. Then he flicks Baekhyun’s too. They go back to exhausting themselves. “How so?”

“Because I was _experimenting_ with her,” he says, a loaded stress on that term, and Chanyeol knows exactly what it means: that it was inconclusive. “The condom broke. At that time, I didn’t even know condoms could break like that.” He laughs again, just one, single _he_. “I used to steal them from my brother and make water balloons with them. They could hold _a lot_. So I just didn’t think it could happen during sex too?”

“How old were you?”

“Sixteen.”

“ _Oh my god._ ”

“Yeah.” A train of three _he_ ’s. “Teenager logic just isn’t logic.” He takes a drag from his cigarette, sloshes the smoke in his mouth, expels.

“Then how aren’t you a dad?” He would be a good one, Chanyeol has no doubt about it.

He glances over Chanyeol’s shoulder, in the distance, where the storm is. “She lost it,” he says, a tone full of courtesy. “I didn’t know that could happen either. And I didn’t know how traumatic it could be. I think I handled it quite poorly, too scared myself.” He takes a smoke, from Chanyeol’s cigarette. Sloshing in his mouth, expelling. Repeat. “Then I felt bad for being relieved that it happened like that. But she was too. Our parents never found out, at least.”

He looks back towards Chanyeol, mouth skewing in a leer. “I just didn’t know so many things, why are we even allowed to have functional dicks so young? That just spells disaster.”

Chanyeol laughs, shaking his head. He hadn’t met sixteen-year-old Baekhyun. At another age, a two-year gap could not hold that much difference, but between fourteen and sixteen, it’s substantial. Still a child, but with toes dipped into adulthood.

“Mine has got me in some troubles too,” Chanyeol confesses.

Baekhyun’s gaze holds his, leer evening out on his face. “Like mine?”

“No.”

“Then?”

Chanyeol laughs again. “Let’s just say I put my dick in a few things, and _spaces_ , that weren’t meant for that.”

“ _Oh my god,_ ” Baekhyun bursts, laughing too. “You fucked, like, a melon, didn’t you?”

“Well, not a _melon_.” Chanyeol refutes, propping his cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t suck. “I made a contraption with some sponges and some elastic bands and some plastic wrap.”

Baekhyun whistles. “Nice. Was it any good?”

“Everything is good at that age,” Chanyeol says. He’s now both proud of it, because he did use it a few times, and partly disgusted.

Baekhyun frowns, the lines on his forehead gathering in thought.

“ _Oh please_ ,” Chanyeol moans. “Don’t tell me you’d want to try that?”

“No,” he titters. “Why would I, when there’s a perfectly fine _you_ to fuck? You’re better than anything I’ve ever had.” He stares at Chanyeol whilst he says this, dead on.

“Wow,” Chanyeol says dumbly. It’s objectification, but also affectionate. Chanyeol likes it. And Baekhyun _knew_ he would like it.

“It was the first and last time I slept with a woman,” Baekhyun says, deciding to finish the story above.

“And now you sleep with foreign boys.”

Baekhyun kills his cigarette. “I don't actually. I’ve never slept with a foreign boy. I don't really fancy them. I don’t know how that sounds coming from someone who runs from home so much, but yeah.” Small shrug.

It’s pretty surprising, indeed. Those foreign boys seem much more diverse. A few of them even caught Chanyeol’s eyes.

“Good thing I fell right onto you,” he says. Because after all, Baekhyun is better than any foreign boy.

“God yes,” Baekhyun chirps. The thunder cracks. The storm is getting near.

Baekhyun closes his eyes. After a few flutters of his lashes, he leans in and takes some of the cigarette from Chanyeol. Another flutter of eyes. His lips are red. They're not red red. But a fleshy one. Still unnatural as though dyed by a summer fruit, by a love.

 

 

 

 

Finally, they go to buy a desk for Chanyeol, so he can stop camping at the kitchen table. He’s made friends with the pepper mill and the salt shaker, but it’s time to say goodbye.

They fit the thing into the back of Baekhyun’s two-seat car, but barely, the edge of it poking into their nape all the way.  It’s funny, and dangerous, which makes it even funnier.

Before they even unwrap it, Chanyeol orders pizza, because building furniture just goes too well with pizza. He also orders some Cola, because he has half a Pringles can left, and there _must_ be Cola for it.

They need some tools they don’t have, one of which being a flat screwdriver. Baekhyun sprints across the hall to borrow one from the neighbour – Henry, a potbellied gentleman who has even offered to help them with building the desk. Baekhyun declined, but he reserved the pastries they ordered to give back to him along with the screwdriver.

A pizza box and a whole bunch of bickering later, Chanyeol has a desk. Now the room has a bed, a desk, a bedside table, a small dresser – which is empty - and the suitcase - which is open.

It smells of wood. Of something new.

It feels even more like his room. No more cramping at the small table or struggling to fit his laptop among plates with leftovers.

He doesn’t even have to work, but he wants to. He needs to. As long as he works, as long as he’s doing something, anything, there’s less thought and time for wondering, for missing, for wishing.

But before falling asleep, Chanyeol always looks him up. What if he’s unblocked him. What _if_. He could see what he’s been up to. Is he better now – now that the burden that was Chanyeol is out of the way. Now that he’s free of the anguish of forcing something that cannot be forced. Did he actually change his house code.

Does he miss Chanyeol at all. Does he want to see him again as much as Chanyeol does. Has he made peace with it, with the breakup, because while Chanyeol has, while it feels definite and real and unchangeable, the affection is still there, and just for that, it envenoms it – because how can they be broken, how can they just not _be_ anymore when Chanyeol loves him so much.

But at last, he turns in bed, and the walls are thin, of paper and kinship, and he hears Baekhyun’s puppy noises in his sleep. Little yips, here and there, not like a snore, but like they’re the sound effects of a hell of an adventure in his sleep. They’re cute and constant. Chanyeol comes as close to the wall as he can and closes his eyes, listening to Baekhyun instead of the rage of his own thoughts.

 

 

 

 

Baekhyun has a pen.

Four colours in one. None of them are plain blue, black, red. But it’s pink, green, orange, aqua blue. It’s always in his hand. If not in his hand, it’s clipped to his pocket, to his bag, to the cover of the book he’s currently reading, used as a bookmark, hanging from his hair one deep, inebriated night.

A colour coding of wisdom, of remembrance. Chanyeol thinks he’s figured it out.

Green is for new words, new phrases, things that make him think of something in a new light. Pink is for cute things. Smiley things. Things he wished happened to him. Things he found charming, made him blush, made him giggle. Blue is for meaningful things. Painful perhaps. Awakening. Mean. Reality checks. Small self-discoveries, that trigger a reprogramming of his person.

But orange. What’s the orange for.

Chanyeol asks.

Baekhyun just then switches to orange. He underscores “gentility of weakness”.

“Now it’s for things that make me think of you.”

 

 

 

 

They go to their secret cinema again. It’s a movie neither of them has seen, or heard of before. He doesn’t ask for a lot of translations from Baekhyun this time, which are prompted by the smallest nudge of his elbow into his side.

The movie is interesting, sort of obscure, greys and blues, with ambiguous dialogue. All the characters have some alarming dark circles. But it’s engaging, if not mildly chilling. And Chanyeol understands most of it.

As they trudge out, towards the blinding sun, Chanyeol presents Baekhyun with the hugest, proudest smile he can muster. Progress is always to be celebrated.

Baekhyun laughs, and grabs him by the wrist. “I will now reward myself with some ice cream.” Over his shoulder, he hurls, tongue in his cheek. “Because I did _that_ good of a job”

“ _You?_ ”

“Of course. I’m the teacher. You got this good because of _me_.”

Chanyeol shakes his head, coming after him resolutely. “No, you’re gonna treat _me_ to ice cream”

“Don’t think so,” Baekhyun tuts. “Correcting your tests sheets every day is hard work.”

“It’s harder work to actually solve them.”

“If they weren’t that hard, you wouldn’t have gotten this good though?”

“You little—” Chanyeol hisses, starting to chase after Baekhyun, who is now sprinting away. Chanyeol keeps begging for ice cream, and Baekhyun keeps denying him, saying he has _no right._

When they sit in the shop, they’re sweaty, pits soaked, foreheads shiny. Chanyeol has his ice cream, Baekhyun has his own, but they take turns taking little bites from each other until they cannot remember who got what flavour initially.

 

 

 

 

 “Little road trip tomorrow?” Baekhyun asks, stepping out of the bathroom, one towel around his waist, one on his head. He was always a bathrobe kind of guy instead of towel. But that’s also Chanyeol’s towel.

Chanyeol transfers the small container of kimchi from the counter into the fridge. They found two little napa cabbages at the supermarket yesterday, looking sad and floppy, and Chanyeol couldn’t leave them there.

“Was that a shower thought?”

“Yes.” He towels his hair aggressively.

“Yes,” Chanyeol responds.

“Great,” Baekhyun says, turning around. “I’ll ask for the big tent.” He drops the towel around his waist into the hamper and ambles towards his room. His butt jiggles.

 

 

 

 

He sees the signs on the sides of the road, but he doesn’t remember any. Just English names, some funny, some just hard, for others, he deduces a meaning, some are utter gibberish. Still houses, roads, people. But now greenery, open fields and open skies. The terrain keeps low, but it has variation.

There’s no destination in mind.

“Far out. Until the night catches us,” Baekhyun says.

So they go far out, until the night catches them. They find some local food too, little carts in front of people’s houses, some vending bread, potato bread, which is huge, and crispy, and they eat half off on the way.

Halfway thorough, Chanyeol drives. It takes a while to get used to the orientation, but not much. Baekhyun did have to shout at him a few times to get back in his lane – _the other lane!_

But Chanyeol really can do this driving thing, perhaps better than Baekhyun, and of course he brags about it, because nothing is stopping him. Baekhyun just huffs into their bread, cradling it like an infant.

They go north, almost passing into Scotland. Chanyeol can’t tell, and Baekhyun can’t either. “I’ve never been here either, you know,” he shrugs, urging Chanyeol to take a countryside road, pebbly, but trodden.

They don’t go to a camping site, or anything. “Are we that lame?” he asks when Chanyeol suggests that.

“No.”

“I don’t think there are, like, bears, here. We’re fine.” Pause. “I hope.”

Chanyeol elbows him, but doesn’t contradict.

The spot they pick has a pretty vista. Not just for the eyes, but for the nose, for the ears too. No sense left unsoothed. It’s warm, but not a sweltering. The air is clear, but fragrant, short herbs, shrubs, small flowers. Birdsong, and water flowing somewhere behind the fringe of a forest, far out. There is stony ground, what seems like boulders, and then a boundless stretch of smooth pasture.

Baekhyun leans against him, back to his chest. The wind blows, and his hair tickles Chanyeol’s neck.

“The world finally seems big again,” he says, sighing.

“Did it seem small before?” He combs Baekhyun’s hair behind his ear, so it stops tickling him.

“Yes. Since I met you here.”

It stretches on and on. Which it does from any point, but this is just another perspective, warped. The world really seems big now.

 

 

 

 

They put up the tent, and they inflate their air mattress inside.

Baekhyun doesn’t have any books with him _\- Sometimes, I like to think just about my own story._

The dark falls in a blink. They cosy up at the tent, making a fire in front of it, bordering it with rocks. A small barbeque, veggies that they picked on the way, poked on chopsticks, salt and pepper and nothing else. Which isn’t filling enough, which is when they bust out the canned beans. For desert, Baekhyun remembers there are some mini cakes he forgot in the car, from weeks ago, but according to the expiration date, they’re still good.

“We basically had a three-course meal,” Chanyeol says, wiping away the crumbs of cake from his mouth.

“We would’ve had a fourth course if you didn’t forget the lunchbox,” Baekhyun throws, passive-aggressive.

Chanyeol hits him, and steals his last bite of cake just for revenge.

Baekhyun huffs, offended, and curls up into himself.

They’re silent for now. The cracks of the fire, the insects, the wind, the rushing water.  Chanyeol hasn’t heard this in a while. Hasn’t been out in nature for a while.

He pushes around the coals in the fire with a stick. The smoke is aromatic. Earthy. As everything about this is.

It’s a lot past sunset now. In daylight, the place was infinite, and it is now too, but unseen. He cannot make out anything past the glow of their fire. It feels exposed, vulnerable, but also safe. Like they’re protected by the monsters of the vast darkness by the little flickers of light.

And it’s getting colder too. They’re dressed bulkily. Layers upon layers, the ugly clothes. Glorified loungewear, hand-me-downs. Baekhyun’s beanie askew atop his head, the drawstrings of his pants undone, half on top of the inflatable mattress.  

They long since cracked into the six pack of beer. Baekhyun now breaks one of the bottles. “Nooooo,” he whines, looking at the beer streaming into the ground.

Chanyeol turns on the flashlight on his phone immediately to look at his hands. No cuts. Just wet with beer. He exhales in relief.  

“We have mine,” Chanyeol says, opening the cap himself with a piece of wood, because _who_ even uses bottle openers.

“Phew,” Baekhyun says, making grabby hands for a mouthful.

It’s their last beer. Drunk over the last of the fire. They have more twigs nearby, but don’t add them.

They drink . They’re drunk. Two and a half beers each. It’s less now – a few years ago it took around five to get into this state. Baekhyun is humming. The fire cracks. It’s pretty – the coals, the remains, the glowing red, the yellow. Baekhyun keeps humming, tune unknown, but childish, a merriment.

He takes his shoes off entirely and climbs in, - squeak squeak, the mattress - and then he leans back. They put the tent right along the car just for this. A bit of wind protection. It can get pretty bad around here, in open fields.

Baekhyun takes the bottle from Chanyeol. He just drinks. No more animation left for it – the commercial shoot is over. He drinks and hums some more.

“I swear this was never so good,” he says, giving it back. He puts his hands in his pockets. Not because of coldness. He peers at the fire, then back at Chanyeol. It’s weaker now, the light barely there, and the tone of it alters Baekhyun’s skin tone, plunges it into a calignosity, marvelousness. Summits of his face alight and dancing with yellows.

He gave it back as though all that’s left is only for Chanyeol. But it’s too much. His stomach is full, knocking inside him like a ship in storm. It’s enough. So he gives the very last mouthful to Baekhyun, who opens up, and tilts his head back, swallows it all, and smiles.

Now, Chanyeol puts the bottle down, next to the others and the broken one. They have a trash bag too, but it’s far away now. When he returns, though he doesn’t have a bottle anymore, he leans in as if he does. And closer. Closer. Until Baekhyun’s eyes flutter, and he stretches out, mouth parting, and tongue sneaking out to lick right across Chanyeol’s lips. Hot. Wet. So wet. All along, peeking inside, just a bit. Chanyeol shivers, skin tightening.

Baekhyun smiles, a huff right after it. Drunken breath. Before he licks them back in the other direction, slower, deeper, that it touches Chanyeol’s teeth.

He retracts it then – cages the playful little tongue back in. How bold this was. Done by someone who was comfortable. Lewd upfront.

Chanyeol nears, and Baekhyun follows him. He doesn’t close his eyes, and Chanyeol kisses him anyway. He doesn’t open up. His whole mouth for Chanyeol’s taking, whelming it all, before a giggle slides in, and they kiss, open, and far-reaching. Another kind of depth, more controlled, calibrated, as though this is all they’re gonna get. Which might be the case. But he tastes so good. And moves so good. Drunk Baekhyun has some tricks up his sleeve.

Because it goes well. Beer and kisses. As Beer and crackers. A side dish, an enhancer. He wants more.

Chanyeol moans when Baekhyun bites him. Not once, but a succession, drag over drag, as he kisses solely with his teeth for a while. It’s oddly fereal. Playful. Conventionally unwelcome, but he makes it work, for Chanyeol is still, enjoying, whining quietly under his breath. He likes this. The mild sting of the scrape that is swept away the second Baekhyun’s lips engulf his again, comforting the distress he’s caused. Warm, diligent. Careful.

Chanyeol pushes him down. The inflatable mattress bounces, squeaks. Baekhyun laughs as Chanyeol bounces right over him, making space for himself with a whine for Baekhyun to part his legs. He braces on his elbows. And looks down. He’s too far up, lips aligning with Baekhyun’s forehead. He kisses that too, and waits for Baekhyun to wiggle his way up.

Chanyeol leans down. Aligns with his nose. He kisses that too. “Higher,” he says.

“You know, you could move too,” he says, glaring at him. Chanyeol glares back. Baekhyun offers his nose up for a kiss one more time before he wiggles right into position.

Chanyeol lowers himself all the way, his pelvis in complete contact with the insides of Baekhyun’s thighs and his crotch, and kisses him. Baekhyun’s hands now go into his hair, and linger at the nape, down, around his jaw, the sides of his face, as he puppeteers Chanyeol whichever way he wants to fit with the whims of his tongue, his lips, his teeth.

Chanyeol retaliates sometimes, pushing his tongue in his mouth, only to have Baekhyun struggling to push it back in, and then give it a mild scowling in the form of a yip, for misbehaving. Then softening completely and crying for Chanyeol to lick into his mouth as well. Chanyeol moans, and rolls his eyes, and moans, and twitters, and grinds down, and scolds Baekhyun for pulling too hard on his hair. The mattress squeaks. Somehow, some zippers are pulled down. Chanyeol doesn’t have his jacket anymore. Baekhyun has found one of his nipples, and he is tormenting it generously, to distract Chanyeol, to make him yelp just a little.

“You’re being a bully,” Chanyeol accuses, as Baekhyun reaches his other nipple and torments that too.

“And?” Baekhyun challenges, breathless.

“I love it?”

Baekhyun laughs. “Do you really, Mister Park?”

“Shut up.” He ruts down. Just a little. Baekhyun moans. He sounds pretty. He always does. Rather than melodic, it’s just unmodulated, involuntary. Because while he might be noisy in jest, he’s not when it comes to sounds of pleasure. And now, the silence around them is like no other. He has never heard Baekhyun quite this clearly, unmuddied by ambiance buzz. It’s perhaps the only sound for kilometres and kilometres around them – his little cry as Chanyeol dives in, and does that little trick of sucking his bottom lip while kneading it. A bit dominating, and Baekhyun yields – he always does when Chanyeol presses.

There is grinding too. It’s unavoidable. Their position and their fervency don’t permit otherwise. And it’s arousing. They only kissed in the context of arousal, so it’s a side effect, implied. Chanyeol pulls away.

“Do you want to come?” he asks. They don’t have anything. Lube or condoms, or means to wash up afterwards. Not to mention, asses full of beans. But that doesn’t exclude everything. Chanyeol is thinking of swallowing him down, beckoning him to kneel over his face and sink his cock into Chanyeol’s mouth and not stop until he’s spilled down his throat. Would be good.

But maybe not this time.

“No,” Baekhyun responds. He’s hard. They both are. Aslant each other so their dicks get maximal friction.

“You?”

“No.”

They laugh, Baekhyun first, then Chanyeol. It doesn’t sound like two distinct peals, but just one, melted together in between their proximity, engaged by the rouge of their lips. They’re too close not to splatter some spit on each other. A slight perfuming with saliva. But does that really matter at this point. They kiss before their chuckles subside, and it’s not even a connection, mouths too taut to mingle. Jagged and breathy and tooth clacks, but they’re kissing properly again in no time, Baekhyun’s hand to his chest – not abusing his nipple – just being there.

The kiss. The kiss that leads to nothing. Nowhere. A kiss that exists just as a kiss, without spreading out, without being demoted to a traversal.

Chanyeol migrates down his neck, just to make him shake a bit. Around his ear, the lobe itself. Chanyeol likes the taste of Baekhyun’s skin. It’s homey. He moans the loudest when Chanyeol sucks on his neck, harder than he’s ever done. They have necked before, but it never left any marks, never stained. Unspoken, hickeys were off the table. He could’ve stopped before he knew it damaged the skin, but he didn’t. Baekhyun shook under him, breath ragged, as he pulled at Chanyeol’s hair.

Chanyeol stops, and kisses over it, a couple of times, ending it with a lick, before he peers at Baekhyun. The hickey is not visible in the dark, but he knows it’s there, fermenting from its red in plum tones.

“Sorry,” he says, ambiguous. He’s not sorry. If this was wanted, he is not. Maybe it’s because they just aren’t taken. Exclusive. Not like they’re looking for anyone else, but they are available. Chanyeol doesn’t know if he wants to seem taken or not. Maybe he has his eyes on someone at work. Maybe what he did is disrespectful to what they are – or aren’t.

But the way Baekhyun is looking at him is a bit off. Not displeased. Not berating. Not accepting either. Something off, that Chanyeol cannot put his finger on. The light has dimmed – they must’ve been at this for a while if the fire is on its way out. Barely a few fascicles of bisque glow make it to them at the back of the tent. Chanyeol moves, so at least he isn’t in the way, and he manages to take a bit of a closer look at Baekhyun. He’s flushed. Chanyeol is too, undoubtedly. They both flush easily. His eyes are glassy – they usually are, but in different degrees. When he’s had them closed for a while – which he has all throughout their kissing – their make out. It’s a make out.

And Chanyeol still can’t read anything. 

“Can I do it too?” Baekhyun asks finally, voice not more than a whisper.

Chanyeol huffs. “Of course,” he says. Because he doesn’t need anyone. Anything. He can walk around bruised until wholly blue, and he won’t care. He isn’t on the market. Doesn’t want anyone. If he is to walk around with Baekhyun’s brand all over, he won’t mind. “Just make sure I won’t end up at the emergency room or something,” he warns.

Baekhyun’s eyes widen, then narrow, He kicks from under Chanyeol, and in a blink Chanyeol is the one with his back on the mattress, Baekhyun pinning him down. “How did you find out I’m a vampire?” he questions, no bullshit, voice rigid as he bores into Chanyeol’s eyes.

“From the Interpol,” he replies.

“Oh shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Please defend me in court.”

“Sure.”

“You’re such an obedient baby boy, Mister Park,” Baekhyun says, eyes so narrow they’re closed. They might actually be closed.

“Are you complaining?”

“Hell no,” and then he does that. The bruising. The kissing. He’s so loving in his ministration. Like he prepares him. He picks up right where he left off, but this time he’s straddling him. Chest to chest, as he kisses him. Kinder this time.

And then the hickey. A soft one. And another one. Chanyeol likes this. Jongin hasn’t done it to him either – he didn’t like it. To hurt Chanyeol like this – in other ways, yes, if it added to eroticism, but even with that, he was reserved. In their youth, their first years or so, they did it, because it was something that everyone kind of liked, right? But they didn’t. So they never really did it, never really learned how to do it, how to make it feel good, how to enjoy it.

But he likes it when Baekhyun does it. It’s nice. A sting that is intense, just in one spot, but he feels it everywhere. He squirms just a bit, and Baekhyun knocks his hips into his, puts on weight, to keep him still. This pressure is even more maddening. The arousal mixes with the sting there. And he doesn’t do just one. He does more. Uncountable, on both sides of his neck. Bestirring a heat under his skin, feeding it with one more touch, one more slide of his lips, one more lick.

“I’m gonna come,” Chanyeol says, not wanting to, really not wanting to.

Baekhyun pulls away at once. He shakes his head. “Me too.”

That would be awful. Coming in their pants when they don’t really have another change of clothes.

“My lips kind of hurt.”

Baekhyun kisses him once more, a salve. “Do they still hurt?”

“No.”

“Good.”

And with that, it’s over. Baekhyun doesn’t climb off him though, just slides to the side, and cuddles close. They have some blankets too, and just one inflatable pillow, because they kind of broke the pump before they got to the second one. At least they have the mattress.

It’s noisy, but it’s also quiet. And they’re drunk. Chanyeol begins cracking some jokes, god knows where they’re coming from, but his mouth just can’t shut up, and Baekhyun hits him, but laughs anyway.

The fire is dead, and Baekhyun gets out just to put their shoes under the tent so they don’t get wet with dew in the morning, before he zips up the tent and nestles into Chanyeol. “Good night.”

 

 

 

 

The next morning, they wake up late, and with an immediate need to pee.

They sit on the edge of the mattress. The air is humid, cold, blanket over both of them. Chanyeol dips his fingers in the dewy grass, brushing it, caressing the earth. He almost expects it to purr.

They have another can of something. It’s good enough. And some of those not-expired cakes. Washing their faces and teeth from the bottle, then Chanyeol busts out the wet wipes for any possible mustiness. They’re slightly hungover, and they both curse the empty beer bottles as they put them in the trash. They gather up the ashes from their little fire too, even though they did it on a bed of rocks so as to not burn the grass. Lastly, they follow the sound of the falling water, just to see it, dip their fingers into it a little.

Now Baekhyun drives. They decide to go a bit more north, passing into Scotland. The accent is cute. They go to a restaurant, have something with chips, and a very interesting sauce.

He drives a bit more on the way back, then Chanyeol takes over. They talk and they don’t. They comment on houses and people, things they get reminded of. About the fragments of childhood they spent together. Baekhyun recalling that he still has the chess set Chanyeol forgot at his grandma’s house the last they’d played. Then the silence, the faint whirl of the engine.

It’s pretty here. There are things to see. Maybe they’ll go again. West this time. Even to Northern Ireland. Chanyeol wants to see more of it.

 

 

 

 

They get home at eleven at night. They didn’t carry anything from the car. In their hands, just the bag of takeout fried noodles from a hole in the wall that was open on the way.

As Chanyeol takes his shoes off, he realizes that this is the scent of their home. The scent of them. Two days and one night away, and now he can tell how different it is from when he first entered and it was just Baekhyun.

Baekhyun yawns, a lion roar, and goes straight into the bathroom. He doesn’t close the door. The shower turns on. Over the din of the water, Chanyeol can hear him yawn a few more times, which infects him, and then he can’t stop yawning either. His eyes water. He picks up some clean sweats and tee from the drying rack, both for himself and for Baekhyun, then he toddles into the bathroom too.

“How do you always get shampoo in your eyes?” Chanyeol asks, amused, as he catches Baekhyun gathering water in his cupped palms and rinsing his eyes as more shampoo from his hair drips into them. It’s a vicious cycle.

“It’s not _always_ ,” he retorts. “Just sometimes.”

Chanyeol shakes his head, takes off his clothes, and drops them over Baekhyun’s heap. He steps into the shower with him, and holds his hair back, guiding him under the spray to get rid of the shampoo. Then he tilts his head a little more, so clean water can go over his eyes, the spray indirect, attenuated in a gentle stream from his forehead.

“Oh, my knight,” he laments as he blinks his eyes open. They’re so red. Two cherry tomatoes.

“Shut up,” Chanyeol laughs.

They’re close, which they’ve been before, and naked, which they’ve been before, and soapy, which they haven’t been before. Not together. But those are variables that don’t change anything. Chanyeol isn’t unwelcome. This isn’t awkward. New, but not startling.

“That was fun, wasn’t it,” Baekhyun says, pouring shampoo onto Chanyeol’s head. He massages.

“I liked it.”

“My ass feels like a pancake. Needs some syrup poured over it.”

“Are you just inviting me to eat it? Or to come on it?” Chanyeol asks, running his loofah all over himself. When he’s done with his own leg, Baekhyun whines for him to do his too. He complies.

“Am I ever not?” Baekhyun asks.

Chanyeol pinches his pancake-butt. Baekhyun yelps, then moans, all show. They drag each other under the spray. They scrubbed enough.

“Our noodles are getting cold,” Baekhyun says, stepping out of the shower, all clean.

As Chanyeol finishes rinsing himself off, Baekhyun pees, then puts on a pair of the clothes Chanyeol brought.

They huddle in front of the TV with the noodle boxes in their hands. They watch a movie that has way too many commercial breaks. When it hits midnight, Baekhyun is yawning more than he isn’t, and at last calles it a day when the movie fell into yet another commercial. Chanyeol laughs, cleans up their trash, leaving their utensils in the sink unwashed – tomorrow is a day too – and he comes back to see Baekhyun pushing it for one more fragment of the movie. His eyes are falling into his mouth.

A few blinks later, he’s asleep. Chanyeol watches him. He’s cute. What is defined as cute, a general a fragility, a rawness, an openness, blamelessness, harmlessness. All into one. Then the arcs of his chin petering into his neck. Triple chin, somewhat redolent of buttercream swirls. Chanyeol approaches him, feet silent. The volume of the TV is still pretty high, but he tries to be under it.

He slides an arm underneath his torso, the other under his head. His sleep is weak, and his eyes crack open, but not all the way. He gets up at Chanyeol’s urging, but doesn’t stand on his own strength. Using Chanyeol as a cane, slowly, they make it to Baekhyun’s room, where he drops onto the bed, over the sheets. Chanyeol has to roll him over to be able to pull the sheet from under him to over him. He cocoons himself, peppered with a few yips. Chanyeol tucks the comforter around his neck, sealing him into the warmth, before he makes to leave.

Baekhyun’s hand sneaks out and catches his. “Why would you go to another bed when there’s a bed right here,” he says, “That’s stupid.”

His eyes are now open. He blinks once, then they close again. His hand tightens on Chanyeol’s.

So Chanyeol stays. Kneel on the mattress and fall right beside Baekhyun, who curls towards him. Hearing the small noises from this close and having his hands like this keeps all the demons away. Exhumed sentiments, breaking through the skin. Chanyeol feels something between his fingers, something humectant, the resin of gaiety. He falls asleep.

 

 

 

 

He sends a few pictures from their trip to Junmyeon. He wished he sent them to Jongin. Because he’s still one of the first people he wants to share anything with, any news, any happiness, anything. But Jongin has him blocked, and Junmyeon is second place.

“Are you still careful?” he asks when he calls after he sees the pictures. There are some with Baekhyun in the frame. Most of them do, actually.  

At the word careful, there’s a single thing that flashes before his eyes. The hickey. The hickey on Baekhyun’s neck, the hickeys on his own. Now of a deep blue, so stark, so loud.

“Yes,” Chanyeol says, and oddly, it tastes like copper.

 

 

 

 

They’re being lazy. Utterly lazy, vegetating on the couch. They cleaned and cooked a while ago. Nothing more to do.

Chanyeol is laying with his back against Baekhyun’s chest, who is using his shoulder as a bookrest. He only needs one hand to hold it up, though, the other fallen in Chanyeol’s lap. He’s been reading for a while, the stack of books they brought from Miranda this week right next to him on the floor. It’s short, just five, one of the many picked by Chanyeol.

And maybe it is because there is some unresolved tension between them ever since they came from the trip, or because they’re in a predicament that so easily favours this, but the moment Baekhyun’s hand drops in the vicinity of his crotch, he yearns for it to fall on his cock, to touch him. Chanyeol moves. Into it, and away from it. It’s a full thrust. Unintention beating intention, in that laxity, that unmitigated heaviness.

“Anything I could do for you, Mr. Park?” Baekhyun whispers, jest in his tone, and the customary hard R in his family name.

Chanyeol moves his hips, sliding higher against him, until Baekhyun’s inert hand falls exactly where he wants to. He twists his head towards him. And makes puppy eyes.

Baekhyun laughs, and begins palming him. “Like this?”

“Yes,” Chanyeol nods.

He perhaps intended to give in a little harder, but maybe he’s been feeling the very same tension Chanyeol has.

He rubs him fully, squeezing, friction over his pants. Chanyeol pushes into it more and more, the pressure building so quick, so surprisingly quick. Baekhyun closes the book, and puts it on the stack. He returns the one on his cock, but the other, he winds around his face, and guides him into his kiss.

Chanyeol falls into it, into the softness, the wit of his mouth as his ruts into his hand. Spontaneous, deluging arousal. Chanyeol reaches to pull his pants down, and Baekhyun lets him, grabs him bare, jerks him, as he keeps kissing him the ribbon of his tongue slithering across the chasm of Chanyeol’s lips.

Baekhyun is hard against his lower back. Fully hard, it seems, when Chanyeol checks by shifting, by making his cock almost slot between his cheeks. He moans at this sensation alone, which Baekhyun plugs with two fingers, making them slide deep inside his mouth. Chanyeol chokes at the suddenness, but he likes it, and most of all, he likes Baekhyun’s expression, the shadows in his gaze as he watches Chanyeol’s mouth get dirty with saliva.

He lets go of his cock, and whispers in Chanyeol’s ear. “Go get the lube.”

 

 

 

They’re on their sides, face to face on the couch, barely enough space for them both to fit. Baekhyun doesn’t stray from his lips, Chanyeol grinds down, taking all of his cock thrust for thrust. It lasts and lasts. Meek throughout, but growing, fomenting steadily, bodies strung out. Baekhyun ruts into him, and he ruts back. Iterant and misguided. No position change, no nothing, as though they’re there and they’re not. As though they’re present but absent at the same time.

Baekhyun sighs, mouth a peony, eyes aflutter, as he curls around Chanyeol, presses a little deeper, a little harder.

It’s a hug, legs and arms, and a formation, screwed into each other. He doesn’t know when Baekhyun comes, there is almost no culmination, the progress seamless as the moan of the high is the same the one previous. But he grasps onto Chanyeol, an embrace, pushing in deep, stilling, locking, nose into Chanyeol’s neck, a mouthful of the skin bitten into.

His other hand is between them as he shakes steadily, breaths deep, copious, hand quick between their bellies. He doesn’t move inside him anymore, but Chanyeol presses, just to keep the contact, the presence, for Baekhyun’s mouth to find his right as he tips, hand quickening, into his tremors.

They cuddle, stay, on top and under each other. It’s not rushed panting, but deep panting, meant to reach farther. Baekhyun’s damp hair is between his fingers. They’re sweaty, drenched, more so than ever before. It’s the swelter of the day, and the swelter of them, for they’d never been at it this long, and there was never so little separation, for Chanyeol at times couldn’t tell himself from Baekhyun anymore.

It’s silent. Until Baekhyun yelps about the condom leaking. Chanyeol hastens to rid him of it.

 

 

 

 

These are the last two cigarettes. As non-smokers, it took them a while to finish it. The pack is worn, dye faded, edges soft, pilling. The worst of the heat has passed – still high, still prolonged, especially at noon, but the days have began shortening again. Ever since they had the first one. Four months. It took them four months to finish a pack of 10 cigarettes.

Chanyeol grabs his phone and searches for the name of the brand. He hasn’t seen it in any store. “This is nowhere to be found,” he says, frowning. The results he gets are for other products, or services, but no cigarettes. He’d like to try another one of their assortments, or get a few packs of this one. No matter how indie it could be though, it’s bizarre how he can’t find anything.

Baekhyun leans in, putting his hand over Chanyeol’s on the phone to angle it towards himself. He scrolls though the results. “There really is nothing. Where could he have gotten them from?”

“You can call and ask him?”

“Did that,” Baekhyun says, pausing to exhale. They’ve let a few of them go to waste, but not this pair. They will savour them. “His number is not in use anymore. I called to see how he’s doing.”

“Do you randomly check up on your ex-flatmates?”

Baekhyun breathes in the smoke he just exhaled, deliberate, odiferous revenants disappearing into his nose. “Of course. I think cohabitation builds quite the bond. I can’t know exactly how your farts smell and not care about you afterwards.”

The use of second person makes Chanyeol wonder. “Do you know how mine smell?”

Baekhyun gives him a look, incisive, and arrogant. “Park, I’ve been _in_ your ass. Multiple times.”

“You dropped the _mister_.”

“I didn’t think it fit.”

“True.” A few more drags. They’re savouring it. They really last so little, because they’re so thin. Chanyeol chokes a bit. “So you’ll check up on me too?”

“You’ve got yet to become an ex.”

Chanyeol is an ex. Just not an ex-flatmate. And not Baekhyun’s. He feels the title doesn’t suit him.

“Will I?” he asks the wall ahead. The wall with the vine. It grew so much. It should be trimmed soon. He knows this wall and those chairs and this balcony. He’s so used to it all. But when will he leave, and _why_.

“I could be your ex-flatmate too,” Baekhyun says. “My contract here is for five years. Half of that has already passed, and I don’t know if I want to stay beyond that, so one of us might outlive this place.”

Chanyeol didn’t think of that. Baekhyun is here because he wants to be here. He didn’t think there’d be any sort of deadline to this.

“Where do you want to go when the time is up?” He remembers. Far, but not far enough. Far enough so nobody knows him.

“I really don’t know. I like it here. I really do.” The last puff, stretched until the filter. It’s all gone. It’s all done now. “But maybe I’ll go back home for a while.”

“Is anyone waiting for you there?”

“Not really. Which is why I’m hesitating. Going home is hard when no one expects you. Whereas I have no such pretenses of a stranger place.”

Chanyeol cannot refute that.

“Maybe it will be me waiting for you,” he says. He cannot imagine that not being true. Not now, after a rekindled friendship, and the progress into – whatever it is that they have. He just knows it’s close. It’s tight. And he also knows what Baekhyun’s farts smell like.

Baekhyun laughs, hearty, breviloquent, but doesn’t say anything.

 

 

 

 

They’re at Champignon. Baekhyun is playing with Chanyeol’s fingers as Chanyeol is ordering. They’re hungry. So hungry. They order a lot. Baekhyun can’t sit still.

Chanyeol feels proud of himself for not stuttering even once.

“I don’t know where you got the Australian accent from, but it suits you,” Baekhyun says after the waiter leaves.

Chanyeol doesn’t even know what an Australian accent sounds like, but he will take Baekhyun’s compliment.

Baekhyun’s fingers keep playing with his hands. He twists them. His nailbeds are elongated, a thin crescent of white along it. It’s smooth, because he never clips them, but he files them regularly. Chanyeol’s nails break anyway. Baekhyun does it on Saturdays, after the cleaning is done, rubbing some moisturizer them too. Then, naturally, he judged Chanyeol for using a nail clipper like it’s the middle ages.

Chanyeol hums along with the background music. Barely there. It’s jazz. And jazz is catchy to him. Because jazz was what Jongin listened to, at the end of the day, through his headphones, or on his speakers, just lounging, ambling through their days. Silence and jazz. Kisses and jazz.

It’s not a dark memory. It’s just a memory.

Baekhyun dances in his chair a little. He drinks more of his orange juice. He barely manages to not make a face – it’s sour. Chanyeol’s is the same, but he likes it. At the third sip, he makes the face.

Chanyeol is wearing new clothes from the batch they bought. A flower pattern shirt, with chaotic pinstripes underneath. It is perhaps the loudest garment Chanyeol has ever owned, but it makes him feel alive – living though the flowers.

When the food comes. Baekhyun almost jumps out of his chair. Steak and wedges. With some spicy sauce and a little salad for them to share. It looks really good, both fancy and run-of-the-mill. Baekhyun stabs a piece and dips it, and immediately puts it to Chanyeol’s mouth.

“Because you did well,” he says.

Baekhyun cuts up some pieces from his plate and puts it on his. He has a rate that somehow he manages to cut two pieces in the time it takes to chew one. So he has ensured his own bite and Chanyeol’s too. And Chanyeol does it too. Potato, not too much sauce because it’s too spicy for him too. Baby tastes. Infantile. Chanyeol smiles.

“At this rate, you’ll be left with nothing,” he says, watching Baekhyun’s plate get emptier and emptier.

“So what.”

“So what?” Chanyeol asks. Baekhyun’s mouth is full. It’s just how he eats. He stuffs as much in there as he can, then chews for what seems to be minutes on end.

“Mmm”, Baekhyun hum-nods. He swallows, not all of it. “I really, _really_ like you. So I feed you.”  

Chanyeol looks at the balsamico on the table. Jongin didn’t like vinegar. Not any kind. He finishes chewing his own piece of lettuce. Baekhyun has no problem with vinegar.

He heard it. And he keeps hearing it. Cutlery on ceramic. Baekhyun’s whines as he throws _manhood_ out the window and freely cringes at the orange juice, but still perseveres with drinking it. Jazz. A couple a few tables away having what seems to be a heated argument in hushed tones. Baekhyun eats, steak and salad over what he just said, minced into a dressing of a confession.

Chanyeol discards it, eats. The portion is fairly small, but Baekhyun finally slows down. Then they’re done, Baekhyun leans back in his chair and pats his belly, which is bulging slightly.

The waiter comes to pick everything up. He asks if they would like some dessert. “We’ve already sinned enough,” Baekhyun chirps.

Chanyeol sips some more of his orange juice. Finishes it. Baekhyun pushes the last of his own towards him.

They’re waiting for the check. It should be quick, but this is a pretty large restaurant and oddly busy at this time of the week and day. Seems like they don’t have a lot of staff.

The lights have already been made brighter, an accompaniment to the daylight streaming in, to lighten the sunset.

Baekhyun’s hand finds it’s way across the table, his fingers nearing Chanyeol’s. They touch.

And the string is attached. At least one of them. One or all into this touch. The heartstrings. Heartsprings. And other constituent accoutrements of this motor, growling isochronally. 

No strings attached. Are the springs just loose. Fringes in the joints of their tailoring, just dangling, cowering away. Are their kisses, so deep, so lustful, not attachments. Is the sex, where they deepen and plunge into each other till there is no more room, no attachment.

What would be the attachment. How would the strings be attached. Taking each fringe, and tying it with courage, with truthfulness.

But did they even talk about this. About the strings, about what they’re doing. For it to be a no strings attached thing it has to be said, agreed upon, by both of them. This isn’t it. This is nothing.

Baekhyun touches his hand, covers it, and with hesitance, with lightness, as though his touch is but a plea, he turns it over, and puts his own over it.

“You said you know where you took me from,” Chanyeol says. The inception of furor in his chest, unclarity pouring over all his resolve.

Baekhyun is still looking at his hand. “I do.”

“Then why…” the jazz rises, the saxophone loud. It perishes. “Why are you being a fool?”

“Am I?” he asks. “Am I really?” He glances at Chanyeol, utterly serene, a rudiment of felicity. And courage. And determination. And _provocation_.

Chanyeol’s mouth is still sour. Only now it disturbs him. “It might be me if not you.”

This isn’t going as it should. As the script dictates. Baekhyun likes him. Chanyeol should reply to that instead of derailing into irrelevant territories. But he finds that he cannot answer that directly. He cannot tell if it’s good news, if it’s bad news.  

“You don’t have to say anything,” Baekhyun speaks, placidity intact. Almost as if he’s talking to Nayeon. Chanyeol is small, a youngling taking its first steps. “You’re right, I might be a fool. I’m just signing up to be the rebound. Which I was perhaps for a while now.”

This was it. The definition. All along, they were a fourberie to each other. A use. Objectification. Truly, a _rebound_.

“If that makes me a fool, I don’t mind.” He frowns, brows crinkled. “I don’t really care what that makes me.”

Chanyeol now wonders if this was premeditated. Or if it was impulsive. If he had a text, polished it, changed it, repeated it, formed it into a poesy, simple, but fraught with his adoration. Or if it was nothing, grown from an untitled assemblage of feelings right into those very words in a blink.

But that holds no worth. No worth at all.

He opens his mouth. It’s vacant. No thoughts. No words. No nothing.

Baekhyun snorts. “I just said you don’t have to say anything.”

“But you want me to.”

“Yes. But you still don’t have to.”

The check is put just then on the table, receipt curled into a little, sparkly cup. It’s Chanyeol’s turn to pay. And to do that, he has to get his hand out from under Baekhyun’s.

“Just say something when you can,” Baekhyun whispers, fragile, unstrung. And with that, he removes his hand.

Chanyeol doesn’t move it from its place. It grew roots in that spot, branched out into the wood.

“Okay?” Baekhyun prompts after a prolix silence. He’s smiley. As if this is nothing. When it so obviously is everything.

“Okay,” Chanyeol agrees. He reaches for his wallet.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

 

After a while, Chanyeol thought permanence.

Now he knows impermanence, incertitude, finiteness. Now he knows that a love doesn’t enslave another until the end of time.

Perennial amore. One two three. Big and small and medium and medium large and medium small. It has shapes and sizes and lengths and memorability. Put in a pot on good soil, on understanding, and watered and moved and adapted until the roots break out. Seek more, seek better. He thinks it’s natural. A given. A demanded. The same course, the same modus applied to so many things. It must be applied to this too.

Chanyeol doesn’t believe in anything now. Chanyeol doesn’t trust anything.

And he wonders if Baekhyun fell for him through the sex. What other intimacy was there between them. So was it the sex.

And if it is— it makes it lesser.

It’s an act that has so little of their personality present, so much of their sensibility taken away, when the selfishness is high, the selflessness is high, hypocrisy is highest, a crossfire of extremes and indecency and mindlessness and skin chafing. It was really through this.

And it makes it lesser. A lower grade infatuation. Miserly. They need more breakfasts, texts, titters, cuddles. They need more till Chanyeol can believe there is a true sprouting and growth of a love that will be worthwhile. Subpar loves are everywhere, webbed in an epidemic of paradisiacal lust and mismatched souls with frighteningly short shelf lives. Considered a perishable.

It’s sexualized love. And he won’t risk that. He won’t have that.

 

 

 

He should’ve called Junmyeon. He meant to.

But he called Jongin.

And it connects.

Jongin picks up.  

Chanyeol leans against a wall. It’s drizzling, and his hoodie is wet on him.

“You weren’t supposed to do that,” Chanyeol says, not hearing anything from the other end for minutes.

“I didn’t know it was you,” Jongin replies. “But I saw it was a foreign number—”

Chanyeol forgot about that. He has a UK phone number now, finally filling the second spot of his dual sim spot. Baekhyun bought it, dropping it into his lap one day when he was upset over having to be the one order them takeout – _am I the only one in this household?_

He called from this number.

“So I guess I knew it was you. It couldn’t have been anyone else.” Jongin doesn’t know anyone abroad. At least for as long as he was with Chanyeol, he doesn’t remember him branching relations beyond the border. “And then I couldn’t help myself.”

Chanyeol is shivering. It’s cold today. He’s shivering because it’s cold today. Not because of something else. Because it’s cold. It’s cold.

“I’m sorry,” Jongin says, and Chanyeol can _see_ everything, his expression assisted by his tone, a slight poutiness, the folds at the corners of his eyes, concentrated with deference. “Should I hang up now?”

Chanyeol puts his hand into the pocket of his hoodie, collecting it into a fist. His fingertips are cold. “No.”

Minutes pass again. They’re not made of seconds, but of Chanyeol’s shivers.

“How are you?” Jongin asks. A bit _awkward_. Because it’s awkward between them now. Because they’re not anything now. “You’re not back yet.”

“I’m…” _Cold_. Chanyeol is _cold_. “Fine.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” A pinch of laugh into that, a seed of disbelief, of _you’re not fooling me_ , lip quirked to the side. Chanyeol can _see_ it all. He closes his eyes.

“In London.” That’s not a state of being, it’s a place of being. And Jongin already knows that.

It’s silent now. A conversation works by having both parties involved, both active, both passive, alternating.

So it’s Chanyeol’s turn to speak. To ask. It’s him who called, it’s even more so his duty.

But why did he call. Why. To tell him what. All those times he called him and it didn’t connect, just what did he want to say.

Don’t forget to buy milk. Don’t forget to buy milk. Don’t forget to buy milk.

Or.

I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.

Be mine again. Love me again. 

But when Chanyeol opens his mouth, ridged with dryness, he says something else. “Are you happy now?”

Jongin takes a while answering. “I wasn’t unhappy.” Smile, abridgement. “But I know what you’re asking. You’re always asking about the things that hurt you.”

“Maybe it won’t hurt me. I don’t know where I stand with this.” Wishful thinking. He knows it’s not more and not less than that. Just wishful thinking.

Jongin, once again, takes his time. For Chanyeol. “I’ve found someone.”

 _Oh_. Oh that. That hurts. A clenching, akin to a cramp, spread, but not diffused, maintaining intensity as it washes over him, outward, and inward. He never forgot this feeling, but it’s refreshed, crisp in its malice.

“I guess I won’t ask about this anymore.”

For Jongin, it died with him right there. For Chanyeol, it didn’t die even whilst they were apart. What kills it. What bite does he need, what venom. What does it take for Chanyeol to not want to run his hand through his hair, to not want to make him smile, to not want to be the source of his joy. How is this killed.

It’s silent. Again. Again. Again, they’re silent. Again, they’re awkward. He doesn’t know how long passes. He has nothing to count anymore.

“Should I answer, if you call again?” Jongin asks. He’s cutting him off. He’s being fucking _cut off._

 _Yes. Yes. Yes._ Chanyeol knows the answer is no. But he can’t say it.

“I don’t think I’ll call again.”

Jongin exhales. It sounds pretty. “Be well.”

“I’ll try.” A pause. Chanyeol shivers. “Don’t forget to buy milk.”

He hangs up. Chanyeol has the eggs. Because Baekhyun is waiting for him. It’s ramyeon day, fancied a bit, broth they made themselves, but packet noodles, because that’s the best combination. Baekhyun is waiting for him. Chanyeol puts his hand in his pocket, and runs.

 

 

 

 

Baekhyun has a blackboard, and a set of chalk, thin sticks, akin to the cigarette ones, blue, red, yellow, and three whites.

It’s vocabulary day. _What words don’t you know? Look around._

Write them down, maybe with a little drawing. There’s something about learning while his fingers are getting dirty that makes it more effective.

Chanyeol learns about vines, aubergine – _eggplant_ , _I never thought I’d come to love those_ – crosswalk, recliner, frown, biscuit – _there are many kinds of those, and this debate won’t ever be solved_ – canvas, pill, remote, bloated, windowsill, starry night. Star. Star-y. Starry night.

Which is right now. They got a new bulb for the kitchen. This one is too strong. It blares into the balcony so strongly that it cheats daylight. But beyond their bubble of light, way above, the sky is starry. Winking. Flirting.

Baekhyun has a wet wipe in his hand. First, he cleaned his own hands. Now he’s cleaning Chanyeol’s, wiping away pink chalk residue from around his cuticles. He has his glasses on, sliding down his nose, lower and lower, now squeezing his nostrils.

Chanyeol pushes them back up. Baekhyun smiles, keeps cleaning his hand.

And after he’s done, he holds it for a while longer. Chanyeol doesn’t notice.

 

 

 

 

Chanyeol doesn’t count the days, but he has gone through all his clothes again, both the new and the old. Baekhyun just happens to be in the same situation, and it’s a contest for who bursts into whose room first with a “Laundry time!”

It’s Baekhyun.  

Except. “Oh fuck, we forgot to get detergent.”

So they go shopping. They also get softener, Baekhyun finding the isle, mapping the shelf, then closing his eyes, moving back and forth, hand on the bottles, and then picking one at random - _because how boring is it to always have the same one._

Baekhyun who makes even shopping fun. Chanyeol likes going shopping with him. He likes doing many things with him.

Jongin didn’t even like using laundry softener. He didn’t really like perfumed things. He didn’t even wear cologne. He didn’t smell of bergamot.

 

 

 

 

Junmyeon keeps pestering him to turn in his work. Which he didn’t do. He called Chanyeol a dozen times, letting it ring until the end. Chanyeol only picks up when the vibration almost sends his phone over the desk.

“Stop that, who are you, my boss?” he bites. Weakly.

“I am your husband,” Junmyeon replies serenely. He can hear Heeyeon chuckling in the background. Chanyeol throws her a greeting too, loud to go over in case it’s not on speaker.

“I’m sending you the divorce papers as we speak,” Chanyeol says.

“ _Rude_ ,” Junmyeon tsks. Heeyeon laughs again. She must be in a good mood. Chanyeol misses her too – they’re close. There are things he told her that he never told anyone else. He thinks of something to buy her from here, dainty hair jewellery, because she’s into that, her hair always donning a little sparkle. He thinks he knows a few stores which might have what he wants. “It’s not funny!” Junmyeon then exclaims, at which Heeyeon laughs harder, and then Junmyeon can’t help laughing too, and then they crack up over each other, peals turning nasal.

Chanyeol smiles. They sound good together. They’re good together.

He’s not calmed down yet when he returns to the phone. “Did you fuck up yet?”

It’s a question that, although light in tone, is sober in content. Chanyeol knew this would happen. Junmyeon wouldn’t call like this just concerning his work.

And maybe Chanyeol picked up exactly because he wanted to talk about this. “Why do you think there would be a fuck up?” he tries.

“ _Oh god_ , so you did.”

Chanyeol bites his lip. It’s tiled with dead skin, flaking to the blood. He lost his lip balm. Lip balm just runs away. He should put it on a leash and find it a mini kennel to store it.

He chews at his lips, revealing a new mouth underneath. But no new answers. He doesn’t say anything.

“What happened?” Junmyeon asks further, changing tactic. Debunking him. Lawyer style. Gaze soft, for Chanyeol is in a position of vulnerability, and aiming to make a narrative out of it. He might as well be wearing a suit, and gathering his palms in front of himself.

 _What happened?_ Baekhyun held his hand. And— “He likes me.”

Junmyeon is yet again silent. It’s how the procedure goes. No question until the story runs out, or finds a wall, a dead end.

But there isn’t more. Chanyeol doesn’t know what else there is to say.

The way Baekhyun played with his fingers as he confessed? He noticed before that his fingers are elegant, pretty in a way no other hands are. Seeing them on his made Chanyeol feel slightly self-conscious about his own. Jongin’s were pretty too. Only Chanyeol’s aren’t. Did Jongin dislike his hands too. Does Baekhyun like them then.

He balls them, puts them under the sheets, under his shirt, phone on the pillow next to his ear.

He can imagine Junmyeon having crossed legs in front of him as he frowns, the line of his pants wonky on the shin because he yet again forgot to go get them cleaned and ironed and neither he nor Heeyeon know how to iron suit trousers to this day.

“He likes you,” Junmyeon repeats at last. It sounds like a diagnostic, like in itself, it’s a sentence.

He can hear Baekhyun’s voice saying that. Crystal clear. It zaps, something collapses in him, innards under stress.  

“Yeah.”

“And you?”

Chanyeol is blank about that. _Still_ blank. Just like he was when Baekhyun told him.

He was surprised, but now that that’s worn off, and the realisation has settled in, he should have something.

If it wasn't for that. For steak and wedges and I like you. I really _really_ like you. If it wasn’t for the words themselves, Chanyeol wouldn’t have known.

Maybe I really _really_ like you existed for a while. And it's apparent just now. In all the small nuggets of care and comfort because there is nothing else to signify the attachment of a heart than the comfort. And above all. The gaze. Just the gaze. And not just in its quality, but also the frequency. How often Baekhyun is just looking at him. When happy and sleepy and stressed and hungry and pleading. His eyes. A bit murky, _starry_ , bejewelled with a fullness that is alarming. Overbrimming, overflowing, and on Chanyeol. All the time.

Chanyeol knows the gaze of someone infatuated. The pyre of limerence and the glaze of devotion. Chanyeol knows it. He's had it directed at him before.

“I don’t know,” Chanyeol replies. Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t know what there is to know or to do. “I don’t want to do…anything about it.”

“And that means?”

“Not changing anything?”

Still cleaning on Sundays before noon, still going to get coffee from My Bloomsbury, watching shows on his laptop, cooking together, going grocery shopping, going out for coffee, the beer on the balcony transcending in silliness, secrets, Baekhyun coming in to take a piss while Chanyeol is showering, Baekhyun cuddling in bed behind him reading as Chanyeol is working, head sometimes falling into his lap, running here and there to keep the Chanyeol fat down - _not the baby fat, this is all your fault, and we’re too old anyway_. The homework, little papers, reading Baekhyun’s books too, going to Miranda, and other, new bookstores too, wearing down the map he brought.

Right now, Baekhyun is over at Nayeon’s for tutoring He should be back in an hour or so. The rice cooker should go off in a few minutes. They’re having bibimbap, and later, yoga, because they saw the mats at the market and decided to buy two. A Youtube tutorial, bare feet, and failure awaits them tonight.

“I don’t want anything to change,” Chanyeol says, firmer. His eyes are closed. He’s thinking of the order in which to cook the vegetables. He doesn’t have to do the spinach, they still have some leftover, blanched and seasoned. Maybe he should text him to bring some beer. Seems to be a beer day.

“Chanyeol,” Junmyeon says. Just his name. Not admonishment. Not. Not anything.

“That’s me.”

“You fucking _fool_.”

“That’s me,” Chanyeol agrees, nodding. The pillowcase is soft, full of the new laundry softener. It smells like a dessert, shortcake and meringues, like it was just brought out of the oven. He buries his nose into it.

“I don’t even know what…” Junmyeon trails off. At this point, he would be uncrossing his legs. And bending over the table. And staring at the texture of it. For the clients that won’t be getting to skip going behind the bars. The doomed ones. The ones that no god and no devil can save.

“I’ll go make bibimbap.”

“For me?”

“For me.”

“And him?”

“He really likes it.” Licks his lips, licks the bowl, not a trace left. It’s more a joy to watch him eat it than it is actually eating it.

“You do make it really good,” Junmyeon says, yearnful.

“Should’ve become a chef.” Chanyeol likes going to the farmer’s market more than he likes going to court. He likes pots and pans more than he likes laws.

“Not too late for that. We’ve been telling you this for years.”

“But then you won’t be my boss anymore.”

“Oh, so I _am_ your boss now?”

Chanyeol snorts. “No.”

“I’m hanging uuuuup!” Junmyeon sings, going all the way into a vibrato.

But he doesn’t hang up. His note ends, but the line is still alive. He doesn’t hear any background noise. He’s home, but where, and doing what, he can’t tell.

And this is his space to talk. Take two, Junmyeon at the table, legs uncrossed, arms relaxed, waiting for his testimony to roll.

“I talked to him,” Chanyeol blurts. It just comes to mind. He didn’t tell anyone. Not even Baekhyun. How could he tell Baekhyun. How could he dare.

But he still wants to talk about it with someone. He felt like he lost and like he won all at once. Like he got freer and at the same time realized he’s anything but.

The silence lasts a beat – for Junmyeon to recompose his tone from the prior jest to the pillowing this topic needs. “How?”

“I called him.” He swallows. It feels like he’s swallowing freshly baked biscuits. Magical fabric softener picked by the magic of Baekhyun’s fingers. “Asked him if he’s doing well. If he’s happy now.”

Junmyeon knows the answers to all of thes, and even more. Chanyeol doesn’t have to tell him any of that.

“Why?” And it goes implied, _when you could’ve asked me all of this_. How he’s done thus far.

“I wanted to see what I felt for him,” he says. “I wanted to see what he felt for me. What it made of him.”

He burrows himself into the sheets. He hears the rice cooker playing its little song. He measured the water so it would end up a little drier than usual, to absorb the sauce better. Mushy rice is awful.

Junmyeon is silent. He’s in his room now, in his bed – he hears the clock on his bedside table, one which has a very noisy secondary hand. He’s had it ever since college, when he used to blare in their dorm room in the morning until their ears shattered.

“Who is he seeing?” he asks. He’s curious about this like nothing else. This person should be exactly what he was lacking. Should be everything Chanyeol was not. And he wants to know. What exactly it was that he was lacking because, in the end, Jongin never told him, never knew. But maybe _now_ he knows.

He can tell immediately that Junmyeon won’t have it. “No.”

“Junmyeon,” Chanyeol calls, the very same way Junmyeon just did. Just the name, pressed into itself, corpulent. “You know who it is.”

A few ticks. Chanyeol counts to thirteen. “Tell me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m stupid.”

“That’s not enough.”

“Because I want to know.”

“No.”

“Junmyeon.”

“No.”

“Ju—”

“No.”

It gets kinder and kinder, softer and softer, and this, Chanyeol knows, is unbreakable. When he dips into mellowness, there is no cracking hm. Shouts and explications are frangible. Softness is thicker, studier than anything else. Chanyeol’s eyes sting. “Okay.”

Junmyeon sighs. Maybe. It could be the rustle of his own sheets. Chanyeol wants to one up him about how awesome his smell. But he doesn’t, tongue bitten. “Just focus on the tasks I give you. And the bibimbap,” a pause. “And Baekhyun.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

Chanyeol sighs too, expelling until there’s nothing left. “Anything else?

“Take care of _me_ too.”

Chanyeol knows what that means. “I miss you.”

Chanyeol misses a whole lot of people. He misses all the people he knows, save for Baekhyun. Because Baekhyun is the only one with him here. The only one about to come home.

“I miss you too,” Junmyeon says, words bare, no fluctuation, no charge, straight from the soul.

He hangs up. It’s silent. He looks at the clock. He doesn’t have a noisy one on the bedside table. It’s just one of the two watches he brought with Jongin, now with the clasp broken.

Baekhyun should be back soon. He’s hungry. He gets up, texts him about the beer, pulls vegetables out of the fridge, turns on the set of mini speakers in the kitchen, and lets it blast Baekhyun’s chirpy pop songs on low.

Baekhyun licks the bowl, and pecks Chanyeol on the temple. Then on the other temple. Then he puts his gloves on, and begins washing the dishes.

At yoga, Chanyeol almost gives Baekhyun a black eye, for which Baekhyun wails exaggeratedly until Chanyeol provides his tummy to rest his head on. He lays there, on the yoga mat, Baekhyun on top of him, and looks at the ceiling. And looks and looks, until he’s not looking anymore, eyes open, but blind, and Baekhyun tickles him awake to drag him to bed.

 

 

 

 

In leisurely clothes, they go to the cupcake shop. _The_ cupcake shop, where their _second_ first reunion happened. There’s no occasion, other than Baekhyun having woken up with the craving after his own sheets _abused_ him with the cake-y scent.

They get more varieties. Not a whole box. But they double on those favourites of Baekhyun’s, which Chanyeol can’t even remember. They turn out to be raspberry ones, filled with lemon curd, and topped with caramel shards. And dizzyingly delicious.

Chanyeol cuts in half all the cupcakes. Three quarters for those that Baekhyun likes, three quarters for those that Chanyeol likes. They eat from the same little plate at the same time.

Baekhyun wipes his own mouth, wipes Chanyeol’s – his fingers are covered in frosting anyway, and he manages to smear him even more. It’s casual, automatic. A smile on his face, soft orange from the buttercream. He’s wearing Chanyeol’s shirt, and chequered pyjama pants and a sweater, an ensemble which _can totally pass for high fashion, okay_.

Chanyeol feels. He feels. Amorphic things, dilated, overweight. But indeterminate. Unsettled.

“We have to run so much after this,” Chanyeol says. He feels bloated. And heavy. Even though all of this is mostly air – sponge cake and whipped butter. Caloric air.

“To the Thames!” Baekhyun declares, and there they go, jogging right after eating, which makes for  a terrible combination for they barely manage not to throw up. Baekhyun doesn’t let go of his hand.

 

 

 

 

It’s late August, and Chanyeol is on vacation because Junmyeon is on vacation.

Junmyeon sends him gorgeous pic after gorgeous pic. He’s in Bali. Cocktails and endless ocean. Turquoise and greens, and the splashes of colour that are Heeyeon’s summer dresses.

Chanyeol doesn’t spend his vacation in Bali, but in the small park in their neighbourhood. If it could even be called that. A patch of grass, four benches around a linden tree. It’s built by the locals, kept by the locals, native but foreigners. They’re middle eastern, Chanyeol guesses. Now it has no flowers, and Baekhyun loves linden tea – _can’t wait for spring to come._

Baekhyun looks over at his phone displaying Junmyeon’s last picture. The horizon margining with the sky, ocean in heaven and heavens in the ocean. “I’d like to go there too. To settle, I mean,” he says. His eyes lower, turn wistful. “I thought about the Caribbean. Or Hawaii.” 

“You’d like to?” Chanyeol asks. It looks sublime. Too much so. Tiringly so. “There can be too much of a good thing.”

“Only people who have never had too much of a good thing say that,” Baekhyun sings philosophically, swiping on Chanyeol’s phone. This picture has just a meal, something with rice, in a leaf, vibrant, something with peanuts on top, and Junmyeon’s own plate, in disarray, for he’s always been a messy, untogether eater.

“For our next camping trip, we can go to some exotic island,” Baekhyun muses. “I’m sure there must be some nearby.”

The geography Chanyeol knows doesn’t quite align with that. “How nearby?”

“Spain is not _that_ far. And I always wanted to see Ibiza. I like how that sounds,” he says, and then slows, opens up wide, molests the word. “ _Ibiza_.” Chanyeol doesn’t know the authentic pronunciation of that, but he thinks this is not it. He titters as Baekhyun chants the word.

“Sleeping in a tent on the beach must be pretty nice,” he says. He likes vacations like these. He’s had a few with Jongin. They went swimming a lot. Even when home, they went to the pool a lot. He looks at the water bottle next to himself – refillable, with a metal straw, sporty – and he almost wants to jump into it.

Baekhyun sighs. “I wanna go right noooow,” he croaks, frustrated. “Let’s go!” and he jumps, barefoot, on the pebbly ground broken by a few grass blades. He jogs in place.

Chanyeol rises with him, and they could go. They could really go. Nothing stops them. Book a flight to Ibiza right now. Get the tent from Baekhyun’s friend, get the inflatable mattress, get canned beans, get beer, and sleep on the beach.

The wind blows. Hard. They have jackets on. Baekhyun is looking at him.

They’re not going anywhere. They know they’re not going anywhere. Even when they could.

Because as they are, perhaps they shouldn’t go. The last time they shared a tent, they bruised each other.

Chanyeol grabs his wrist. Without any resistance, Baekhyun sits back on the bench.

“If you look hard enough, this kind of looks like Ibiza,” he says, focusing on the ground, the herbs, the shrubs, the fine pebbles.

The sky is clear, but muddy. It’s always slightly muddy. It will drizzle soon, but for now, there is a bit more of the clear day to go. It could pass for the ocean. If a bit more sapphire in it, if a bit livelier. It could.

Chanyeol looks at it too. “If I squint, there’s really no difference.”

Baekhyun giggles until his chest runs dry. The topic burned out, but a wisp of ideation between them.

Chanyeol’s canvas shoes – another new purchase – are off, and his legs are folded underneath himself. He takes a lot of space this way on the little bench. Baekhyun’s back is against his shoulder, both of them stacked against the arm rest.  The book is back in his hands. He leans against Chanyeol, right where he was previously. It’s silent again. The muted traffic from beyond the buildings. It’s a little fortress, an adytum of peace. The children of a family are out, playing badminton. Their shuttlecock is of such bad quality that it doesn’t fly. They keep shouting at each other, a mini fight for mini humans.

Baekhyun is turning pages. An old book, sepia, not from recycled paper, but from time. The ink is missing from some places. He’s only at the beginning.

Chanyeol picks up the other book – the one Baekhyun’s just finished. When they left, he had the epilogue left.

It’s a new one, pages bright white, ink crisp. It smells new too, of the present instead of the past. Inside, on the cover, 7/10.

He opens it and reads. He understands a lot more. Not everything. His vocabulary didn’t reach the nooks and the crannies, but he’s not nearly as lost as he was before. Here and there, he asks Baekhyun for the meaning of the words.

Chanyeol is at the third chapter – he knows all the characters, their aunts, and how broken and black the dentures of her sister in law are – when he realizes that the book is full of Baekhyun’s notes. Smiley faces. Sad faces. Exclamations marks, question marks, underlining. Curses. Whole paragraphs cordoned with thick parentheses – those are to be read twice, thrice, carefully, known memoriter. Barely a speck of white left on the pages.

A map of pink. Green. Aqua blue.

And orange. A lot of orange. The whole book is a peach, a sunset, a fire.

_What is orange for?_

_Orange is for when it makes me think of you._

Chanyeol closes it.

 

 

 

 

One evening, they go to the cinema. Caramel popcorn, and hoodies to bury themselves into. They didn’t look at the poster outside, and, as always, left just a bit more than the price of the ticket to the old ladies. As it starts, they realize it’s in French. It’s all in French.

“Oh shit,” Baekhyun laughs. Chanyeol laughs too. They barely understand anything. Baekhyun does though, a few words that are similar in English, and he explains them every time.

When they get out of there, giggling, it’s with both of them doing cheap, dramatic imitations of what they saw on the screen - it was a melo, romance and family tragedy, tears and catfights, an a few jokes that went right over them. Baekhyun catches onto his arm, cries, and even more dramatically begs Chanyeol for food in Korean but with French accents. He adds a S'il vous plait at the end, which sounds nothing like it should, but is also oddly distinguishable.

As they trudge through the streets, Chanyeol catches Baekhyun putting a hand over his heart and smiling. A tilt of his head, a chided grin, an extravaganza more of cheeks than of lips.

When Chanyeol puts his hand over his own chest, he feels nothing.

 

 

 

 

Junmyeon has had no less than five margaritas. His excuse is that Heeyeon has had six. And unlike him, she’s still standing.

“When will technology evolve enough that you could drink that through the screen,” Junmyeon says, slurping loudly. In the background, beach waves. They’re staying with a local, who has a house right by the shore. The owner is an elderly woman who cooks so well that Junmyeon has already promised his first born to her.

“I’ve drunk enough already,” Chanyeol says.

“Why?”

“Cause’ I drank.”

“What?”

They had wine on the balcony again. With biscuits and butter. Which didn’t go well together, until they got drunk enough, and then they went _really_ well together. Baekhyun is now napping in his room – _just for a little while_. 

“Wine.”

“Why?”

“Cause’ we bought some.”

“ _We_ as in you and Baekhyun?”

“Who else,” Chanyeol spits. “I don’t know anyone else here.” If Oliver and Nayeon and Henry, the neighbour, and Miranda don’t count. Chanyeol really has no one else to drink with.

“Right,” Junmyeon says. Heeyeon shouts in the background – she’s just found a small crab. Junmyeon is terrified. “Keep it away from me!” Her laugh is loud. Chanyeol can hear Junmyeon running through the sand.

He’s panting now. Chanyeol feels like panting too, even when he’s doing nothing but be spread out into his bed, head heavy.

“Any update on that?” he asks.

Chanyeol knows what he’s asking about. “We bought a frying pan.” Paid for it evenly, because it would be bought for Baekhyun’s home, and it makes sense that he should pay, but it’s also not a purchase he would make had it not been for Chanyeol’s need for it. So they split the cost of it. As they do for many other things. Chanyeol can’t wait to try it out.

“I think you’re married,” Junmyeon says. He’s walking back to the house now, after Heeyeon assured him that her little crabby friend has gone back to its friends. “People who co-own frying pans are married.”

Married. Chanyeol looked at rings before. Other jewellery. To put on Jongin. He bought a ring once, a thin, non-descript band, gold and silver, and a bit of texturing. As though handcrafted, artisanal. It was on his pinky finger. It blended with his skin tone, but when it caught the light, its gleam was blinding. Jongin never took it off after Chanyeol gifted it to him, a quarter into their relationship.

Does he still wear it. Does he still have it. Did he pawn it off. Did he throw it away, in the trash, in the Han river, just let it drop to the ground, to be stepped on, fallen into a sewer. 

Of course he took it off. He’s seeing someone right now. Of course. He can’t be wearing Chanyeol’s ring when he’s with someone else.

“I’m not marrying anyone,” Chanyeol says. If he had it, if Jongin gave it back to him – maybe he has, lost somewhere in Bloomsbury 312 – would he put it on Baekhyun’s finger. They’re pretty. He notices it over and over, gesture after gesture, that Baekhyun’s hands are really, really pretty.

“Then what are you doing there?” Junmyeon asks. No more panting, no more footsteps, no more waves. The backdrop is a pasteurized silence, acetic.

Chanyeol looks at the ceiling, because he’s on his back, his eyes are open, and the ceiling is there. He seems to be looking at ceilings a lot these days.

“I don’t know.”

Junmyeon sighs. Chanyeol doesn’t read into it. “You do know.”

 

 

 

 

Baekhyun has a meeting to go to. The new semester hasn’t started. yet it’s approaching, and while Baekhyun is still off, he’s not _that_ off. He puts on his formal clothes, brought out from a corner of the closet that was left untouched.

Before he leaves, he approaches Chanyeol, who was just wiping down both Baekhyun’s and his own laptop, cleaner spray bottle in hand.

And boops him.

Cold nose tip on cold nose tip, a squish, a bit of grease from his sunscreen, and the rim of is glasses branding the mound of his cheek.

Cute affections, petite, have been everywhere, but this is too offhand, too light, roots in something that is tender and fragile and monumental. And the smile afterward, bitten down so it doesn’t devour his whole face, a pink, trampled ribbon.

Chanyeol is petrified, a vigour sprinting to him.

“It won’t last long,” Baekhyun says, pulling away. He smells of cologne, the cologne of long ago, which he hasn’t worn since the school year ended. “Text me if you need me to buy anything.”

His shoes are on, his bag across his chest, his car keys in hand, smile limitless. “Bye!”

“Bye,” Chanyeol replies. The door closes behind him.

Chanyeol touches his nose. Then he seeks inside himself—

Is Chanyeol malfunctioning. Is he defective.

 

 

 

 

Sehun is back. Baekhyun couldn’t shut up about it for the past three days. He goes home over his break, leaving Baekhyun by himself the past summers. Which was _sad_.

Baekhyun gulps down his tea, which is too hot, and then puts the mug in the sink with a _pretty please wash it for me_ flutter of his lids. “I asked him to bring some honey butter chips. I’m really curious if he managed to smuggle them through the customs,” he tinkles as he pulls on a turtleneck.

“I hope you asked for two packs?” Chanyeol asks, rinsing Baekhyun’s cup.

“Three even. One extra for you.” He flattens down his hair, only to ruffle it again afterwards. He turns towards Chanyeol. “I remember how much you like them.”

Because they came out on the market around the time they met. They were a novelty, a rarity, a treat. Chanyeol still hasn’t lost his fondness of them, and it seems, Baekhyun hasn’t either.

“I don’t think I like them any more than you do.”  
“But you’re still getting the extra bag,” Baekhyun tuts, buttoning his pants. “Can I take this?”

Chanyeol’s denim jacket. At the shoulders, it fits him just as it fits Chanyeol, but in length, it reaches almost mid-thigh, when it’s only at Chanyeol’s waist. It would go better with his outfit than his own jackets. “If you bring it back before eight.”

“I’ll bring _myself_ back before eight too.”

“That’s a promise.”

“Yessir.”

 

 

 

 

Baekhyun is back at eleven, keys jiggling at the door for minutes before Chanyeol goes to open for him.

He’s glowing. He’s drunk. He hugs Chanyeol.

“Tall, taaaaaall Chanyeollie,” he gurgles in titters. “You’re soooo tall. I can’t even be seen behind you.”

He embraces Chanyeol hard, the tension in his arms evident.

“You’re so big. I have so much to hug.” Chanyeol chuckles, supporting Baekhyun’s full weight once he bestows it upon him. He combs down the mess of his hair. It’s sticky for some reason. And it doesn’t smell of their shampoo anymore, but of smoke, debauchery, human waste. “There’s _so much_ Chanyeol. Lots and lots of Chanyeol for me.”

The sudden, evanescent sobriety, as he pulls out from under Chanyeol’s chin. “You’re so soft though. All this Chanyeol, and you’re like, fluff. Pure fluff. I should protect you.”

“What did you even drink?” Chanyeol wonders, for he has never seen Baekhyun this gone, and they have drunk, they have gone beyond their limit, but not to get to such a state. He even considers how it might not be alcohol at all, but some other toxicant.

“I don’t remember. A bit of everything. Sehun likes doing it that way—” A jerk, feet going forward. “Sehun….Sehun is cute. Do you think he’s cute?”

Chanyeol sees where they’re going and redirects them towards the couch, where he was thus far playing a game on his phone after Junmyeon decided to give him a day off out of the goodness of his heart.

“He’s cute,” Chanyeol agrees. Oddly broody, mature, whilst having some babyish characteristics. An antithetic man.

“He’s soooo cute,” Baekhyun giggles, legs of liquid. Chanyeol sits on the couch, Baekhyun still hugging him, so they both tumble on the cushions. Baekhyun settles in his lap.

“So cute,” Chanyeol says, brushing his hair from his eyes this time. It’s sticky enough that it obediently stays behind his ear.

Baekhyun looks at him. Starry night. “And…are you jealous?” He puts his hands on Chanyeol’s shoulders. “I’d be jealous if you went out with Sehun. I’d be jealous if you went out with anyone.”

His hands squeeze, meeting bone. “Don’t go out with anyone.” He licks his lips, the red of them reddening. “Go out with me. Only with me.”

The track changes again, not leaving chance for his previous words to settle. “But you know what—” he licks his lips again, redder reddening. “I have something to tell you,” Laughter, glassy, a loud, manipulated in a way a lucid laugh would never be. “I just found it out.”

He giggles, mouth big, going behind his ears, so eager, so hasty, as though he just found out the _juiciest_ news, the _juiciest_ gossip.

He dips towards Chanyeol’s jaw, not quite making it to his ear. “I love you.”

He laughs. The biggest bomb. _Unbelievable_. Be amazed. _Be amazed with me._

“Isn’t that crazy?” More laughter, the same one, as dispersed as the other, as he shakes in Chanyeol’s lap. “ _I love you_.”

That burns. Not like a fire over frostbite, not charged like when Jongin touched him, but a burn that is surface and maddening like one from the side of a pan. Like burnt sugar on skin. Like the juice of red peppers forgotten on fingers and rubbed into eyes. One that leaves a blister and pulsates. Like alcohol going down the throat but from the ears. Like having them clogged like a pool. Insulating the sound there.

The _I love you._

Not _I don’t love you_. Not _I’m not in love with you_. Not _I love you less._

But just _I love you._

The last time he heard this, it was in autumn, two years ago. Was Jongin waking up against his chest to the alarm clock - they had to get up for something work-related and, instead of whining immediately, he said _I love you_ , with a nuzzle, and then he whined. That was the last time. Then something happened through the rest of that autumn. That winter and most of the spring for Chanyeol to not hear it ever again.

And now.

It’s _I love you_.

“My first crush is also my first love,” Baekhyun giggles chokily as a drunk would, throat loose. “How amazing is that?” His nose presses into Chanyeol’s neck. “Chanyeollie. I love you.”

It's not so sudden. Because I really _really_ like you is perhaps just that. A _like you_ , a _really like you_ is weaker. Is softer. But a really _really_.

And Chanyeol knew it all along.

“You’re not saying anything now either. It’s okay, you still don’t have to. I can do aaall the talking. Like—” and he dips just in his other ear. “I love you.”

He giggles once more, harder, louder, smile humongous, eyes gone. He finds Chanyeol’s gaze again.

“Why are you looking like this at me?”

And how, just how is Chanyeol looking, what is Chanyeol feeling—

“You don’t believe me? Because I’m telling you like this?” he waves him off, literally, arms up, wrists snapping. “I’ll tell you when I’m sober too. Don’t worry. I love you sober too.”

Hands on his shoulders, his neck, he lowers himself, forehead to Chanyeol’s. Chanyeol holds his breath. Friable, burning. “You’re so pretty, did I tell you that? So, _so_ pretty, Chanyeollie.”

Baekhyun nuzzles into him. Nuzzles some more. Deep. To the point that the relief of his face is pressed fully into Chanyeol’s neck. His hand is on Chanyeol’s side, just under the ribcage, where it spills into softness and surrenders.

“And I miss you,” he says then. “Why are you making me miss you?”

It’s damp now. It’s damp because Baekhyun is kissing his neck. And it adds one more thing. The temperature change. The dampness cooling, the vapours, painted all over again.

“For how much longer do I have to miss you?”

Baekhyun is kissing down his neck, along it, in place, trotting it, under his ear, biting it.

Baekhyun moans, the hand on his side migrates to his chest, fingers spread, and lies on Chanyeol’s left pectoral, dead weight. Idle.

It’s noisy. Very noisy. Given it’s all into his ear, pressed in by Baekhyun’s lips themselves. His tongue is there too. To the point that it’s homogenous. Dampness and movement and tickles.

Chanyeol doesn’t think about it. It feels good. It feels…really good. Its fervour, its motion, the stimulation itself, the headiness Baekhyun seems to be getting from this.

Baekhyun says _I love you_ , once more, straight into that kiss, and just like that, it feels _wrong_. So fundamentally wrong that Chanyeol can’t stand it anymore. That it doesn’t feel good anymore. And he wants it to stop.  

“Baekhyun,” he just whispers. Just that.

And over the sound of the kisses, the loud, cacophonous kisses, maybe Baekhyun didn’t hear, but he noticed though, the pathway of those kisses. Edging his jaw now. Daring to cross the border. Later, he would’ve asked for lips. And Chanyeol would’ve given them, maybe, if he hadn’t shattered.

“ _Stop_.”

Baekhyun pulls away with a gasp. He’s sober, for a second, the haze is gone, the mud is gone, the mindlessness, the _love_ , is gone. All that’s left is the dry shell of his gaze, cracked by dread.

The hand on his chest leaves. He pulls away. Takes all the heat with him. The dampness finally has time to cool.

He peers at Chanyeol. He looks Chanyeol right in the eye.

He covers his mouth. It’s so red. It’s so, so red, the reddest a red could be, could burn. And he covers it just the way Jongin did after he kissed him and said he didn’t like it anymore. Just the way someone who has wronged him does. Who is sorry does.

And from behind it, a wall of flesh and dissolution, Baekhyun whispers. “I’m sorry. Forgive me.”

The _forgive me_ is so quiet. Because it’s an askance. Which he doesn’t quite have the right to ask for.

“I’m sorry.” He repeats.

He gets up, sloppily. “I’m sorry,” he says again. Hand still to his mouth. His guilty mouth. The fingers dig into the plush of his cheek on one side. He’s pressing hard. Squishing it. Admonishing it. As though it took action without his will.

“I’m sorry.”

 

 

 

 

They don’t talk about it.

They don’t need to talk about it.

The next morning, Baekhyun remembers everything. And Chanyeol remembers everything.

There is nothing to repeat, and there is nothing to forgive.

Chanyeol asks him if maybe they could go see a play today. He hasn’t seen a single play during his stay in London. Baekhyun deems that unacceptable, and finds them a play to go to. A comedy, it so happens.

They laugh, and they know all there is to know.

 

 

 

 

It didn’t begin another way. Not with some rivalry. Not with a fight. Not with an accident.

Only two reunions, one with drunkenness, vertigo, and misery, and another with sugar dusted lips, a small table, small chairs, and awkwardness.

They’re at the little park, under the shade of the linden. The wind blows, and it’s warm, but not too warm, and he’s not alone, Baekhyun with his book and his tea, and he has no worries, and he’s sated, and looking forward to what is beyond this moment too. An urban piece of Elysium.

The tragedy of a bohemian – isn’t it a tie. A knot. An anchor.

Isn’t it Chanyeol.

 

 

 

Junmyeon’s vacation is over. The margaritas are over. And now he’s tan. Badly tan. Which he proudly showcases via a very low shot of the line on his hips, delimiting the golden-brown skin from the pale skin. He looks like he was forgotten in the skillet for too long. And not flipped over either.

“I don’t wanna see your cock,” Chanyeol says when Junmyeon calls, just a second after he sent the pic.

“Aw, but why?” Junmyeon pouts. “It did nothing wrong.”

“Does Heeyeon agree with that?”

Junmyeon trails off in a slurp. It’s almost midday there. He’s having his hot chocolate. “I’m not going to ask.”

Chanyeol laughs. He’s in a good mood. Today was nice. They went to the exhibition of an artist who made some mind-bending installation from trash and other non-recyclable materials. Chanyeol returned home compelled to create something with their own trash. Baekhyun barely managed to stop him from sinking his arm into the bin.

From the other room he hears the volume of Baekhyun’s series – one Chanyeol can’t watch with him because he’s skipped one too many episodes and he can’t catch up on the plotline now. He hasn’t heard his little reactions in a while – which are mostly gasps, man, _this is a_ twisty _one_. He might have fallen asleep, and this is the short interim of silence between Baekhyun’s awake puppy noises and his asleep puppy noises.

“Oh but,” Junmyeon says, a few slurps later. “Did you dick Baekhyun yet? As his _boyfriend_?”

Chanyeol cringes, acid splashed over his general cheeriness, and it curdles, the fog of the joy separating from the whey of his qualms.

“Do we really have no other things to talk about?”

“Such as?”

“The weather?”

“There it’s raining all the time. Here is now sunny.”

Chanyeol moves a folder back and forth on his desktop. To the left, to the right. He should put it in another directory. But for now, to the right, to the left.

“It’s not really raining all the time. It does rain quite often, but it’s not very noticeable. It’s a fine rain.”

“ _Fascinating_ ,” Junmyeon whispers. “Now tell me why the _fuck_ you’re avoiding this.”

He’s mad. He’s truly mad. When he curses, the word isn’t tempered, unlike his other words, but it’s nothing short of a slap to the face. Chanyeol cups his cheek. With his other hand, he keeps moving the folder.

“He’s in love with you.”

Another slap, palm full of nails. Chanyeol just cups his face a little harder, trying to hold it together. Too many holes.

He hears the first puppy noise. Indeed, the asleep puppy noise. Chanyeol will go later to take the laptop away from him. He tends to fall asleep with it right on his stomach, which might result in _grilled baekbelly_.

“So he said.” He puts the folder in the directory. And then, left to right, right to left.

“And _you_?”

Chanyeol _what_. Chanyeol is at his desk, having just sent in his report. He’s craving barley tea. They have some left. He should get up and toast some.

“I want barley tea,” he says.

“ _Chanyeol_ ,” Junmyeon exclaims.

Chanyeol immediately takes his hand off the mouse and cups the other side of his face too. He holds himself.

“I don’t know,” under his fingertips, he can feel his skin being akin to a colander, punctured, fluid gushing out. “I don’t know.”

“Do you love him too?”

“Don’t ask me.”

“Do you not?”

“Don’t ask me.”

Chanyeol doesn’t even want to hear. He covers his ears. His hands aren’t big enough to hold together everything he needs held together. He might lose a few pieces. “Don’t ask me anything. I’ll tell you when I know.”

Junmyeon’s chair creaks. It didn’t use to. He should use Chanyeol’s chair then, it’s in better condition.

He sighs, defeated. “Okay.” His desk phone rings, that tune Chanyeol hasn’t heard in a long time, that he utterly despises. “I have a meeting.” Another ring. “Goodnight, Chanyeol.”

Chanyeol breathes out. It feels strange. Like it’s someone else’s soul. “Good afternoon, Junmyeon.”

When Chanyeol lets go of his face, it doesn’t come after his palms, butterflied and bloody in his hold. It stays where it is, intact. He pats it, to make sure.

Then he puts the folder back on the desktop and gets up to go into Baekhyun’s room. His laptop is on his stomach. The movie is still running. Chanyeol pauses it, shuts the lid, and puts it under the bed, plugging in the charger. He takes one of the small pillows away from under Baekhyun’s head, gently holding it so it doesn’t startle him. Too many times he’s complained of neck pain after falling asleep like this.

Lastly, Chanyeol takes his socks off too, balling them before unballing them once he decides they should go in the wash. He looks at Baekhyun. His mouth almost doesn’t move, even as the noises escape. They’re not throaty, but smooth, and Chanyeol can’t understand how or why he even makes them at all. He turns off the light and pads to his room.

 

 

 

It’s Saturday, and they’re cleaning.

Chanyeol is dusting into the drawers in their rooms too. In the one under Baekhyun’s bed, he finds the empty box of condoms.  

That’s all they used. One box of condoms, and one pack of cigarettes.

They had sex five times. Smoked ten cigarettes.

Chanyeol didn’t want to think of it in those numbers. To see that they’ve had a kind of intimacy that can be counted.

 

 

 

 

Chanyeol is falling asleep on the couch. Baekhyun takes the blanket from the arm of it, and tucks it around his form. He pats it under his chin, making him comfy. Then he stays there, silently turning the pages of his book, occasionally caressing Chanyeol’s head.

He’s been doing this for a while. Maybe he’s always done this.

But only now he realizes that Baekhyun doesn’t only have his heart on his sleeve, but that there isn’t a place where his heart isn’t obvious.

 

 

 

 

Chanyeol is coming with some ethics into this. Mostly an elaborate, cynical theory about pointlessness. This heartbeat is pointless. This excitation is pointless. This aliveness, this bewitching attraction, this need to touch, to hold close, to hold dear – it’s all pointless. It feels good, but so what. It’s wonderful, but so what. Chanyeol has all this motivation, all this good, but no will to walk towards it.

Baekhyun is pulling, but Chanyeol just cannot seem to move.

 

 

 

 

They’re on the recliners at Miranda’s. Chanyeol is reading aloud from a book about some indigenous tribes. It’s reading lesson today. Chanyeol’s tongue hurts, but he’s already been going for longer than usual.

“When will you kiss me?” Baekhyun asks through the gap of his fingers as he holds his head in his hand. Through bravery. Through the petrified hankering.

Chanyeol halts. He gets a papercut on the side of his thumb, announced by a sting. He looks over the book at Baekhyun. “Do you want me to?”

Baekhyun’s lids lower behind his glasses. He bites his lip. “Like mad.”

His mouth, a posy of chirrups, inviting Chanyeol into a kiss. It’s obvious he wants it now. He wants it. Like mad. Like _mad_.

Chanyeol can’t move. Chanyeol doesn’t know about his own desire. He has never not wanted to kiss Baekhyun. If he could, he would. If it was an option, he would’ve taken it. No doubt.

But now there is doubt.

Kissing him. The cling. The grasp. He’s into Chanyeol’s chest. He’s small, nearly falling into the abysm of the bareness.

He’s looking down. He’s looking just down.

The lamp wavers. It’s humid, and it’s cold. A mistimed cancer for this time. Chanyeol is shivering.

“I’ll wait,” Baekhyun says, throwing him a bone. “Kiss me when you love me.”

Chanyeol clings. “Okay.”

 

 

 

 

Baekhyun is just back from getting his hair cut.

Chanyeol’s is long. It has grown out a lot, but not too shabbily. He doesn’t care enough for it. Baekhyun invited him to the barber too, but Chanyeol declined.

Now Baekhyun has his new haircut. He looks neat, like he did when he first met him in spring.

“I kind of miss the shagginess now though,” Chanyeol says. And the apple hair – the single super thin hair tie he has, catching just his bangs, right at the top of his head. He looked cute with it.

Baekhyun runs his hands through it. It’s shiny, bouncy, falling right back into place as if it was never touched. “It’s fine, now you’re shaggy enough for both of us.”

Chanyeol has his hair pushed behind his ears right now, it’s that long. He uses a headband sometimes – one that he bought from the supermarket and has some little kitty ears. It does its job as a headband well enough. “Good thing my job doesn’t have a dress code,” he says. Junmyeon laughing, calling him a slob and threatening him with dismissal doesn’t count. And as long as he keeps shaving and showering and functioning, he cannot be a slob. Hair isn’t enough of a qualifier.

Baekhyun’s smile is shiny – strawberry lip balm, slightly tinted. “Mine doesn’t either. They just want _decency_ , whatever that is. I think I could present myself there in the booty shorts and get away with it.”

Chanyeol ponders it, “Maybe. But please don’t.”

Baekhyun laughs. “No. I won’t wear them for anyone else now.”

Chanyeol’s heart squeezes, presses into itself. His fingers shake for a second. Baekhyun is still smiling. Strawberry shiny.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Baekhyun indwelled into him in many ways. Baekhyun put himself little by little into his pocket. Little by little. Now he’s fully in there, in all the clothing, ever-present, wholly, entirely in there.

But it’s not in the way that brings him the comfort he needs. The desire he needs. He’s there. He’s definitely there, he’s wearing some of Baekhyun’s clothes, and his skin, and his mannerisms, and he’s sleeping in his bed, in his sheets, basking in his smile, basking in his embraces, in his words. Baekhyun is there. Plunged profound and wide. He’s there.

But does Chanyeol love him.

 

 

 

 

He calls Jongin again. He lets it ring three times before he hangs up. He puts the phone on the desk, face down.

He breathes out. And keeps working.

 

 

 

 

When it was so hard to say _I love you_. When it was so hard to say _I miss you_. When it was so hard to say _I cherish you_. When they were pubescent, and prone to burning alive from their blush. Then these statements were too big for their scrawny shoulders. When they sounded like responsibility. When they sounded like an absolute in an era of change and hastiness.

And now, the biggest words aren’t enough. His sincerity isn’t enough.

How awful is it that Baekhyun is using all the words, the smallest, and the biggest, and they don’t get to Chanyeol.

 

 

 

Chanyeol has his hands in Baekhyun’s hair. It’s damp. Chanyeol twists it, keeps it so for a few seconds, and it does hold the curl for a blink before it melts back into straightness.

Baekhyun is reading. A skinny book, pages brown, ink bleak. It’s someone’s memoir. Nothing is happening in it. It’s about what has already happened. He doesn’t have his pen though, and hasn’t asked Chanyeol to pass it over.

He huffs. And reads the line aloud. Chanyeol huffs, too.

He could turn on the television, or grab his phone, or find himself some entertainment too, while Baekhyun has his. But he doesn’t need anything. His hair, his head, his little sounds too, the rustle of pages turning, the random stretches, and their seldom, molten gazes meeting.

His cheek is shiny, glazed with his moisturizer. The buttery scent of this nourishment, and a field of something, millefleur.

Chanyeol just wants to take a bite of him. He reaches, in the worst angle perhaps, and Chanyeol—

Chanyeol kisses his cheek. It gives onto his lips, it squishes, it indents, welcomes the pressure. He doesn’t feel a taste, but there is a sweetness and a tenderness. He’s so soft, so welcoming. Chanyeol could sink whole into him, make himself at home within him.

Baekhyun shrinks instantly. Grasping, pulling himself together, and his cheeks, the tops, the base, over his nose, get ruddy in a blink. He puts the book over his face, so only the lunes of his eyes show. He’s gazing at Chanyeol. His feet kick too, gather, and claw at the cushions of the couch. He looks away, and he looks at Chanyeol, he looks away and he looks at Chanyeol, before, lastly, he covers his whole face with the book and…groans, yelps, cries out. All of them together, a mash of over-emotion.

Chanyeol burns. Something is aflame within, jittery, enticed, _attached_. He blinks. He blinks the accumulation there, another heat, another grandeur. Followed by unbelievable chill. Just ice, along with the burn of it, all of it compromised. Chanyeol will not feel his body the same way ever again.

When he realizes how little he feels. When he realizes how meek this is. Amort. When he realizes it has no significance.

“Are you like this just because of a little peck?” Chanyeol asks. He sounds choked, words barbed.

And his voice shudders a little. A trepidation though all of him, just spreading more. Baekhyun’s smile, under the book, doesn’t let up. The cheeks are lifting it, plump and high.

He lowers the book, and his eyes gleam softly at Chanyeol. His voice is tiny, mousy, confined within shyness. “How would you react of the love of your life kissed you like this all of a sudden?”

The book goes back over his face.

How would he really. The love of his life. Kiss. Cheek kiss. Kiss on the lips. It must feel wonderful to curl like that. To feel the happiness Baekhyun is feeling just from a peck. And it’s unbelievable too, it’s heady and too powerful, for Chanyeol is the object and cause of this merriment. He will never find complete comfort for this. This will never not make him dizzy, not pull him in harder, when the love Baekhyun has for him is this gorgeous, this beatific.

It’s a crushing realisation.

He slowly takes the book away from Baekhyun’s face. It’s bright. It’s vivid. His expression, his aura. Bouncy. Jumpy. Even as he’s still lying down, head on Chanyeol’s thigh.

“I’ve been thinking about your lips on me for so long. I’ve been wanting you to...”

Because is this. Chanyeol wonders too. Is this the step. Was this the pair of pecks that makes them more. Just more than they already are.

The kiss to his other cheek. It’s long. His venters rearrange, sting and pull. It’s regret. It’s guilt. Stabbing him. Making him black and blue inside.

It means the complete opposite to him. He doesn’t know what pushed him to taste it now. What’s different from that night at Baekhyun’s, ten days after Jongin left him.

Nothing. There is nothing different. After all of this, nothing is different. It comes crashing down, when it wasn’t even risen. Broken amidst the rocks below, washed into the depths.

“I’m leaving,” he says. That’s all he knows. The offspring of this certainty. That he’s been here all along for nothing. And that he sees no progress for this, no amelioration. It just cannot be.

“To get the bean sprouts?” Baekhyun asks, smile still huge. “I’ll go after I finish this chapter since I have to get something else too.”

To bean sprouts. _Bean sprouts_. No. Not to bean sprouts. _No_.

“To…home,” Chanyeol says. Not this one. The other home. Home _home_.

The colour drains from Baekhyun’s face, converts to greyscale in a heartbeat.

“I’m going back,” Chanyeol says. To make it clear. To make this clear. To himself. To them both.

And now his mouth goes lax. This contrast. Of his whole body going lax while his eyes keep filling, just keep and keep filling. over rimmed with...panic.

And in a blink. It’s pain.

In another one Baekhyun drops the book. It falls with a clatter to the floor, pages mangled. That hand comes over his eyes. Shields them.

He stays like that. Chanyeol’s heart kicks in his chest, riots, a coup d’état. It lasts and lasts, lives strung like pearls on a necklace, on and on. In Chanyeol’s ears, tinnitus. In Chanyeol’s hands, Baekhyun’s hair, fingers pinching the end of a spindly braid.

“You don’t love me,” he says, lips almost covered by his hand.

Chanyeol winces. He’s right. He’s right.

Chanyeol would never tell him yes. Would never have him hear that. But how ugly it sounds. How it punctures somewhere within him.

He releases the braid, begins another one. Halfway though, strangulated, Baekhyun removes the hand.

“ _Chanyeol_ ,” he says, a question, a prayer.

Chanyeol finishes the braid. “No.” One word. It’s so short. Couldn’t a no be longer. Couldn’t it be crammed full of all else in there. But it’s just no. Faceting his tone to attenuate, but not falter.

The hand goes back over his eyes. It curves, squeezes the sides of his face, his temples. Chanyeol curdles, body breaking down, separating.

He stays like this. A few more lives. Pearls on the halter.

He takes the hand off the eyes again. They’re rosy. The most splendid rosiness being the ugliest.

“You won’t love me?” he asks. “Are you saying—” a swallow. The rosiness intensifies. Vermillion. Blood. Just blood. And Chanyeol is the executioner. “Is this not a time thing?”

A time thing. In another half a year, maybe Chanyeol could. But it doesn’t even seem likely. He cannot even imagine that. Simply because he cannot imagine another self.

Chanyeol doesn’t want to talk again. Keep himself tacit. Keep it all in. But he cannot leave Baekhyun without answers. Not when what he sees with him is so short. So limited, has no momentum, no inertia. It has a staleness. It’s still the biggest thing he feels, but it’s so stale, so dull, so barely there to the point where hosting even it, as weak as it is, is unpleasant.

“Chanyeol,” Baekhyun repeats, so feeble, so breathy, so shattery compared to the other one.

Chanyeol lets go of his hair. “I don’t think I can.”

“You can’t love me?”

His last words, dripping over his lips, spiritless. Drop by drop.

“No.”

“Ever?”

“I don’t know about ever. I just know about…now.” Because it’s not a time thing, it’s a Chanyeol thing. Solely a Chanyeol thing. 

Baekhyun seeks for his hand, finds it, grabs it, and brings it towards his chest

It breaks him. The skin and the core chopped, all in shards, and hissing as they rub together with the movement. Chanyeol regrets so much, just so much that he cannot feel it anymore. He’s nothing more than this regret and this guilt. Baekhyun turns. The hand that was on  his eyes is now on Chanyeol’s hip. The fingers dig. Baekhyun’s face forces itself into the space between his thigh and his pelvis, as he twists on his side. The hand is held tight. Is pressed to his torso, to his chest. Is held there as he curls and tenses.

It’s all the pain. It’s really all the pain. His forehead digs into Chanyeol’s bones. His fingers grasp tight. So tight. And he rocks. Like a shushing for himself.

Out of all the things Chanyeol ever did, he regrets the course of action that caused this the most. But it’s not even his own pain to feel. He never imagined he could feel so bad for something. He could be so vile. He could be so mean. He could be the pain of someone like this.

“You don’t love me.”

He’s not crying. They’re the wettest words, drenched in the fluid of anguish, but he’s not crying. “You won’t love me.” He rocks, and he pushes, and he curls, and he squeezes.

He gets up. So sudden, nearly like he is plucked away, and he pads towards the foyer.

Chanyeol jumps after him. He makes to do something. To stop him. He didn’t say it now to not take responsibility for it. To not be here with him. To leave him alone.

“Don’t go,” Chanyeol says, stopping behind Baekhyun as he’s putting his shoes on. He shouldn’t leave his own house over this. “I’ll go. I’d better go. Not you.”

Baekhyun gets up, shoes on. He doesn’t turn around, as he shakes his head. “I just don’t want you to see me crying, Chanyeol,” he says, and he _is_ already crying, it’s _so_ obvious. “What good will that do.” He sniffles, muffled. “Stay. I’ll bring your beansprouts when I return.”

He grabs his jacket, his keys, and leaves. The door falls shut.

He made him leave too. Why is Chanyeol— Why does he exist. How does he take it all back. How does he fix this. Himself. What is there to—

And he wonders. And he waits. Just right there in the foyer. Standing. Unmoving. His body goes numb here. There are pins and needles and then nothing. But he doesn’t move. He has nothing else to do. He doesn’t remember what else could be done but stay and wait and wonder.

He hears other doors closing in the hallway. Not many. It’s really late. A few footsteps of the same woman who lives two doors down and always comes back home at this hour. It’s her, not Baekhyun. Chanyeol waits. Baekhyun. Baekhyun should be back. Who left only for his sake. Who shouldn’t have left. Who shouldn’t have been pushed out of the comfort of his own home because of Chanyeol.

If it’s because he didn’t want Chanyeol to see him crying, Chanyeol should’ve left.

 

 

 

The door opens. It wasn’t even locked.

He’s back. He’s _back_ , and startled to find Chanyeol right where he’s left him probably hours ago – eyes wide, bloodshot.

And after all this thinking, the only thing Chanyeol can do, wants to do, is hug him. Embrace him. He doesn’t know if it further irks the pain or if it serves as a medicine. But he needs to show him that he’s there. Still there.

It only takes a step to gather him into his arms, press him into his chest, tight, so all of him fits into his care. Baekhyun is stiff for a few seconds, before he’s boneless, just grief in Chanyeol’s hold.

“Chanyeol,” he sniffles, big, clogged. “I barely stopped.” Anew, a wave of more snot, more tension. It’s so bright, scarlets and purples agleam. Hideous in its brilliancy.

Now Baekhyun cries on his chest. Where he should. Not out, into the night, amongst strangers, away from home. But here, on the very cause of it. Baekhyun cries, and it’s a million kinds of awful, but it’s Chanyeol’s duty to hear it.

“Should I leave now?” he asks, when the sobs subside slightly. “If you don’t want to see me anymore.”

Give him the other option too. Chanyeol basically kicked himself out the moment he said he’d be leaving. Chanyeol has no right to stay in this space anymore. He will be whatever Baekhyun needs: present or absent. Because now Baekhyun is truly the victim, and Chanyeol is the perpetrator.

Baekhyun pulls out from his hold to find his eyes. “No. Please don’t. I don’t even know when you’re leaving, and it feels like it’s too short. I _know_ it’s too short. No matter how long it is.” He pulls at Chanyeol’s sweatshirt. “Stay. _Stay_. Chanyeol.”

His plead is too genuine. Nothing should be spoken like this, so full of soul.  It’s a laceration, Chanyeol is bleeding all over. He nods, just nods.

With the corner of his eye, he sees the bag of beansprouts on the counter. He really bought it.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. If they could move on. Follow how the night was supposed to go. Beansprout soup. Marinated eggs. Rice. Baekhyun just really likes beansprout soup.

Baekhyun is crying. Silently now. Tears all over his face, eyes swollen. Chanyeol cups his face.

“No. But I think I should…eat something.”

They both should. Because there’s not many options of other things to do. But eat.

Baekhyun doesn’t let go of him as he turns towards the kitchen. Chanyeol doesn’t let go either.

Chanyeol begins cooking, Baekhyun’s arms around his middle, his head on his back. Chanyeol takes out the bag of anchovies. Six of them. Beheads them. Guts them. Puts them into the pot.

Baekhyun cries. “It won’t stop. I can’t make it stop,” he says, watery. He rubs his face into Chanyeol’s back. “You’re not even cutting any onions.”

One garlic clove. Chanyeol crushes it. Baekhyun is crying. Chanyeol cannot function. Baekhyun’s hands travel up his chest. A hug like no other, a care in it, an adulation, a desperation.

Chanyeol puts in the beansprouts after he rinses them. Baekhyun cries, holds onto him.

Reheating rice, bringing out the eggs from the fridge. Cutting them into halves with a piece of string right over the rice.

Baekhyun cries. “I can’t make it stop.”

“You don’t have to make it stop.”

Chanyeol turns around, facing him. Streaks all over his face. He’s cried so much that it’s almost dry, cracked, sunken.  

It’s Chanyeol’s fault. It’s _all_ Chanyeol’s fault.

 

 

 

 

They have their bowls of rice in front of them. The container of kimchi, almost empty, and the big pot of soup in the middle.

Baekhyun isn’t eating.

Chanyeol isn’t eating.

“I was waiting. I know I was waiting,” he says.

Chanyeol goes to the other side of the table, pulling his chair along. He picks up Baekhyun’s spoon, dips it into rice, then into the soup. He crowns it with a piece of kimchi – a strand of green onion. He holds it to Baekhyun’s lips.

His eyes are just two wounds. Chanyeol’s feel the same. But he presses the spoon, and Baekhyun opens up.

He eats. He looks at Chanyeol. He swallows. “But I didn’t think…” another swallow, ”I just never thought it would be the opposite.”

Chanyeol loads another spoon. Holds it to Baekhyun’s lips. He takes it. Chews. Cries. Swallows. “I was waiting for you to love me. Not for you not to.” Chanyeol picks a tissue from the box on the table, and dabbles at the trail of soup spilling from the corner of his mouth. “Why didn’t I think it could go the other way too. I truly didn’t think about that. I was so sure that you’d…” Two tears, falling at the same time, meeting on the tip of chin, then falling into naught. “ _So sure_.”

Chanyeol loads the spoon. Holds it. Baekhyun chews. Swallows.

“Why was I so sure.”

Another spoon.

“I don’t know what assured me. But I couldn’t think of the opposite.”

Another spoon.

“It was never in my plans for you to not love me too.”

Another spoon.

“This isn’t what I was waiting for.”

Another spoon.

“You were supposed to love me.”

Another spoon.

“Not this….not—”

Another spoon. Baekhyun doesn’t open up. He takes it from Chanyeol, handle falling awkwardly in his grasp.

He turns it around. Holds it to Chanyeol’s lips. “It’s really good.”

Chanyeol opens up. Chews. Swallows.

Baekhyun loads another spoon.

And another.

And another.

And another.

Until the rice bowl is empty.

 

 

 

 

After the dishes are washed, and the light is turned off, they trudge towards their rooms.

In the doorframe of his own, Baekhyun stops. “Can I sleep with you?”

Chanyeol nods, and opens the door wider.

They climb into bed. Baekhyun faces him. There’s a streetlamp right outside Chanyeol’s window. His room is always alight. And he can see. They can see each other clearly. Baekhyun’s desiccated, bruised eyes, bluer than red, and endless as if demolished.

“I don't know now…” he stops. Discards it, and restarts. “Should I not touch you anymore?  You don't like it now—” the harrowing, the hollowing, “or you never liked it at all”

“Touch me,” Chanyeol says, and he holds his hand to his cheek, covers it all and presses until his palm impresses on his cheek. He nods encouragingly. He’s never disliked it. But he gets it…asking about discomfort. And there was. When Baekhyun touched him and he did it out of love and Chanyeol almost felt pressed into it. Like he must. But he cannot say that. Because it's nothing. "As much as you want."

Fingers brushing by. Not like mapping. But as though Chanyeol grows new skin after every brush, as though it’s unknown, unloved. And he has to feel it. Has to find it out. His fingers, two, then pose to his lips. Fingernails over the cupid’s bow. Hovering, suspended. Until he presses, stealing a kiss from Chanyeol to them.

It’s one sided like this. It cannot be. So Chanyeol kisses him – a stifled one, for there is barely any room, for a bit of pucker, a bit of pressure, a bit of an impression. Baekhyun waits, holds, until Chanyeol’s kiss retracts, and then, he takes his fingers, turns them, and fast, so fast as though the kiss travelling might go cold, might go dead, presses the fingers to his own lips.

The proxy between them. This is done backwards. It’s just backwards. Just off. And he pushes, pushes till the flesh yields to his gums, to the bones, branding that kiss deep.   
Which is not even a kiss.

His eyes flutter. Shut. Shut they keep fluttering, a mayhem under the lids. As he kisses Chanyeol’s kiss on his fingers. Not Chanyeol. It’s just a moment between him, and Chanyeol’s kiss.

And it shouldn’t be like this.

And it doesn’t _have_ to be like this.

Because it's easy.

For Chanyeol, it costs nothing. To give it to him. And he waits, asking and asking, to make sure Baekhyun understands there is no more meaning to this. If Chanyeol will give it to him. it would be the very same way it was until now, just with more regret in there.

And now there’s desperation on Baekhyun too. Desperation is the same on everyone

A fanaticism. A craze. Spasmed and raw in a way nothing else can be. Skinned until the very essence, visceral and open.

Chanyeol can give him anything and everything but his love. Chanyeol can place himself whole in Baekhyun’s will, even as his heart doesn’t follow. He will give Baekhyun himself. He has to, for his peace, for his good. A reconciliation. Baekhyun can have a lot of him.

Before his eyes open – the kiss isn’t over yet, a kiss that Chanyeol is the foreigner in, the intruder, until he winds his fingers around his wrist, and lifts himself so he’s hovering over Baekhyun.

He looks at Chanyeol. Wide eyes. Stretched out by surprise, and by hope, which is the most merciless of them all. But it doesn’t have to be.

Chanyeol lets go of his wrist, and moves it to his nape, barely lower. He wraps it there, his nape fitting just into the curvature of his palm, support, more than supplication. Supplication will be later.

Will be as Chanyeol asks, without asking, a question that needn’t be asked.

“Yes,” Baekhyun replies. “ _Please_. Yes.”

 _Yes_.

So they kiss. They kiss and they kiss and they _kiss_.

Baekhyun’s hands are in his hair and on his chest and on his back and on his hips. Everywhere at once. Nowhere. Because this is so fast, and so heartfelt, that Chanyeol doesn’t even feel it on his body anymore.

Chanyeol has never kissed, and has never been kissed this way. Never has a kiss felt so heavy, so crushing, whilst worked with the softest materials, the tenderest feelings.

Chanyeol is one with Baekhyun. It’s on skin. It ended up being a skin. “What are we doing?” Chanyeol pants, kissing him, responding to his rutting, to his grasps, face buried into his neck.

Baekhyun moans, fingers in his hair. “Making a mistake,” and from there, from this label, Chanyeol brings himself closer. He’s so hot. He’s so warm. So inviting. And Chanyeol has sins to pay.

Baekhyun is pushing, he’s pushing and Chanyeol is somewhat fighting back, repelling him, so it makes for this motion, this motion of _I want you, I need you,_ and _I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

So they keep on. It’s something done by two people, for different reasons, but for the same goal.

And when Baekhyun pushes away just slightly, eyes mad, and he asks, “Can I kiss here?” as his fingers ghost by Chanyeol’s cock, there’s no rectifying this.

When Chanyeol fits into the flexure of Baekhyun’s legs, fingers deep into him as Baekhyun mouths at his chest, Chanyeol’s begins pouring all of his regrets into making him shake.

It’s a position of power. But it’s just the position. No one has the power now. They only have the submission. Not to each other, but to themselves. Demulcent caresses flowing over each other. They’re frail. Both of them. They’re wounded, both of them. This is the gauze, the narcotic, ultraviolence to their movements.

Baekhyun is begging for him, unrestrained. Chanyeol rummages for a condom in the drawer where he found the lube. Before he remembers—

“Condoms,” he breathes, getting Baekhyun’s attention.

He frowns, until he remembers too. “We don’t have any,” he says,, deliquescing, touches dripping off Chanyeol. He bites his lip, the wreckage of it. He breathes out, eyes closed, defeated.

Then he looks back at Chanyeol.

He just looks.

He doesn’t plead. But he looks. He agrees. He’s into this. Now if only Chanyeol would follow.

This has been defined as a mistake anyway, what’s unprotected sex added to it. What’s one more thing.

“I haven’t had anyone—” And Chanyeol kisses him yet again. Fuck this. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.

What matters is the spread of Baekhyun’s body as Chanyeol enters him. And his moans. And his pleasure and ardency.

He pushes Chanyeol down, and climbs on top. “Feel good with me. Please. Feel good with me.” He undulates, or trembles, working himself down, moaning, enjoying, definitely enjoying, eyes a haze, forehead to Chanyeol’s. He’s not touching himself, not doing anything for himself up until Chanyeol’s forehead creases, and he asks for more and more, involuntarily twitching, seeking what builds it up more.

Chanyeol comes under him. It’s powerful. Chanyeol feels his bones snapping, capsizing. He hugs Baekhyun into it – his deed, his work, his merit. Baekhyun who is still rutting slightly, shallow, but quick, quick, until right after him, he collapses within the surd moan of an unwonted orgasm.

Then the kiss, the very last kiss, both kinder and harder, but skin-deep, lips, just lips, no tongue, no teeth, no grabs, no pulls. Devoid of aggression, of intensity, and composed, wholly, purely of longing, of adulation, of care. Chanyeol’s eyes sting, his body dismantling.

He then pulls off. His eyes are closed after the kiss. And he doesn’t open them even as he jumps off Chanyeol, leaving him wet and sensitive into the cold, as he turns and walks away.

Chanyeol doesn’t move. He doesn’t move at all. He doesn’t even pant, doesn’t think, doesn’t even exist.

He hears the shower going on. Could be one of those turbo three minute showers. Or more.

He’s back really after just a few minutes. Chanyeol sighs, relieved. Because Baekhyun, when he asked if he could sleep with him, he meant that. Not something else, not this _mistake_. And it’s right that he would also come back to his bed.

He doesn’t look at Chanyeol. His eyes are open, but he’s moving as though they’re not. He climbs into bed, takes the other side.

Chanyeol waits. Unsure. He should clean up. There is lube all over him too, come on his stomach, Baekhyun’s and his own, after dripping out of him.

He rushes. Not much clean up – just what actually needs a rinse. He puts clothes on from the drying rack, which is very conveniently right in the living, on the way to his bedroom.

He climbs into bed. Baekhyun doesn’t move fully, but his toes twitch.

He’s lying with his back to Chanyeol. They’re aligned, Baekhyun facing the wall and Chanyeol facing his back.

Baekhyun sighs, so long it’s almost indistinguishable from a deep breath. But he can tell.

And he approaches, puts a hand on his waist, Baekhyun startles, but relaxes, and he slowly accepts Chanyeol’s arm around his middle, his hand coming to meet it, tangling with his fingers.

And with this they fall asleep.

 

 

 

 

The next morning, Chanyeol wakes up to an empty bed. The door of his room is open. It smells buttery, sweet. The washing machine is on, on the drying cycle, trembling. It’s raining, or something is frying, or both. Possibly both.

Chanyeol gets up.

Baekhyun is in the kitchen.

“You’re not gonna die if it’s a little burnt,” Baekhyun scoffs defensively when Chanyeol looks over his shoulder into the pan. French toast, which has gotten a bit too golden indeed.

They always do this with bread that went just a bit stale. Or they feed it to the few pigeons that come by their little park. But mostly, it’s for French toast, because they actually both really like French toast.

Except it was Chanyeol who made it thus far.

Baekhyun plates the two slices in the pan, then takes the last two from the mixture, wiping the shallow dish with it, and adding that too.

Chanyeol peers at his hands. The hands that grasped at him yesterday like they wanted to indent him, be part of him. And there is a bruise too, on his neck, haphazard, probably painful, right under the weak, weak placement of his Adam’s apple. Chanyeol bites his lip. It’s raw, He’s sore in many ways, not just physically.

The kettle is ready, and Chanyeol pours it over the grounds prepared in the French press. He puts the lid on. Baekhyun flips the slices. It’s quiet. It’s loud.

“Are you okay?”

Baekhyun fiddles with a corner of milky egg, a little crumb of omelettes, drying on the side. He picks it up on the spatula, eats it, jaw tense, hard. Then he flips the slice one more time.

He looks at Chanyeol. “For a great love, you only cry once,” he says.

The tone of a quote, distant, but the bitterness is there.

“Who said that?”

Chanyeol cried a lot for Jongin. Was it not a great love then. He’s inclined to believe it, however.

Baekhyun grabs the jar of honey too, because that’s what he likes them best with, honey, and hot milk with one tea bag in it, and coffee, black. It’s the mini celebration breakfast made from stale bread.

“Me, right now.”

And then they’re eating, madly burnt French toast, honey, the peaches they’ve let go a bit wrinkly at the back of the fridge, dripping honey on the counter – Chanyeol gathers it with his finger, licks it off, then Baekhyun does it too – honey right off the table, and the finger, just tastes better, and Chanyeol complaining about how there are a few grounds floating in his coffee and – Baekhyun truly isn’t crying, but he isn’t not either.

 

 

 

 

“I fucked up,” Chanyeol says.

Junmyeon is silent. He’s home. The clock is ticking. And ticking. And ticking. “I know.”

“I’m coming home.”

“I know.”

Ticking.

 

 

 

 

“Can I sleep with you again?” He looks down, at the hells below. “Just…sleep. I promise.”

Chanyeol drags himself to the other side of the bed, to make space for Baekhyun. He pulls the cover back, pats the space, and Baekhyun climbs in.

He doesn’t touch Chanyeol, and he doesn’t say anything.

 

 

 

Chanyeol buys the ticket. He doesn’t know what day, when, when he has to select it. He looks at the clock. Five twenty-seven. He buys it for the twenty seventh of October. And he prints the boarding pass when he later goes to restock on a few things. Baekhyun’s strawberry yogurt in particular.

Should he let Baekhyun know. Should he tell him. He should come back later from work today.

Chanyeol fiddles. Frets. Cowardice. And he just puts the pass on the coffee table, face up, and retreats into his room to work a little more. His mind is blank.

He doesn’t hear Baekhyun coming in, he forgets about it entirely, but when he gets out to pee it’s dark, and Baekhyun is on the couch, feet bare and knees pulled into himself, headband in his hair, and the yogurt bottle in his hand.

“Hey,” he says. Hey. Hey. They never said that. What Hey. What the fuck is _Hey_.

Baekhyun looks up, sketches a smile, he has kitty curls of yogurt, faint pink, and the flashing of the television.

“Hey,” Chanyeol replies. Then he recalls he has to pee and waddles quickly to the bathroom, Maybe he’s imagining it but he thinks he hears Baekhyun letting a soft huff in his wake.

He’s back, not this room, no more working, but instead, he joins Baekhyun on the couch.

The boarding pass is now on the other side of the table, facing down.

Chanyeol hurts. He really was such a coward. He wants to see more of Baekhyun, be close, be there, but then the movie is on again.

“It didn’t start long ago,” Baekhyun says, drinking a bit more of his yoghurt. “His wife suddenly disappeared.”

Chanyeol looks at the screen. A man entering with police in tow into his house, presenting the room in a mess, blood and broken glass.

At least Chanyeol isn’t going to disappear like this. He will…disappear some other way.

Baekhyun’s free hand finds Chanyeol’s on the couch. It plays with his fingers, tracing, as though it’s new, never seen before, never felt before, wondrous, and precious.

The commercial break lasts for almost ten minutes. There have been a few already.

“Sehun told me that you don’t—” he stops, and the silence knows exactly what it means. “But I brushed him off, because how could he know. He’s only met you like, what, four times? And so briefly? How would he know…” his fingers pass Chanyeol’s knuckles. If he goes farther, his hand will completely cover Chanyeol’s. “I guess he just has an eye for these things, but I didn’t believe him. When he warned me too. Everybody warned me, including you.”

His head lowers on Chanyeol’s shoulder, no weight, then a bit of it, then all of it.

“I thought I could see better. I thought it was because they didn’t know you. And I chose to believe it my way. But I was the one who got it wrong. Who read it wrong. It was all me.”

A laugh, that is anything but. “I went to school for so long and look at me being the dumbest of dumbs.”

Chanyeol opens his mouth to respond, not to refute, but to comfort, there is a self-deprecation in that that shouldn’t exist.

But the movie starts. “Oh I knew it was all her scheme,” he says. Attention fully turned towards the movie. His hand leaves Chanyeol’s, his head leaves Chanyeol’s shoulder.

 

 

 

 

He sees Baekhyun in autumn now instead. Nearly. Almost. Maybe Baekhyun has always been somewhat autumnal. Carried a cosiness and a sentimentalism, layers and tranquillity, citrine hues and spice.

It’s finally cool enough to bring out the jackets, and the one fedora which, oddly, doesn’t look ridiculous on him.

When Chanyeol sees him entering the door on Friday night like this, he feels like he doesn’t belong here yet. Not now.

“I’ll treat you to a pint of beer,” he says, “And some crisps.” Indoors, he’s jittery. They both are. But it’s different, where the beer is.

Baekhyun bends to tie the one shoe he untied. “Make sure I don’t have more than two.”

 

 

 

“Cheers to our first not-date?” Baekhyun says, holding up the jar of draft beer.

“First not-date?” Chanyeol asks, clinking the glass with him anyway.

“All the times we went out like this…they were dates to me,” Baekhyun says, putting the rim of the jar to his lips and downing it.

Chanyeol didn’t know. Since when. It couldn’t have been from the very start. But what if it was.

He puts his beer down. Baekhyun puts his jar down too, but it’s empty.

“I’m sorry,” Chanyeol whispers. His eyes hurt. And not from the very low light here.

Baekhyun waves him off, and steals his beer. “Well, not like I called them out,” he says.

He downs this one too. And when he puts it down, empty, he’s not sober anymore.

 

 

 

 

“Do you still get lost?” Baekhyun asks, following after Chanyeol through the streets, arm hooked around his. 

“Yes,” Chanyeol confesses, realizing he’s not quite sure where he is. But what he is sure of, is the fact that they didn’t walk far neither from the bar, nor from their building.

“Ah, I wish I could get lost again,” Baekhyun sighs, letting Chanyeol lead. He makes no move at all to correct his calculations.  

“Why can’t you? I’m sure you don’t know the entirety of this city.”

“I don’t. But I don’t think that’s the kind of lost I want.” A jump. “Oh, there it is!”

The linden tree. With the bench. They finally found it.

Baekhyun skips to it, wobbly. Chanyeol sits next to him, and then they are both protected under the tentacles of the balding tree. They’re silent. It’s late. Way over midnight.

Baekhyun’s feet swing off the bench. Back and forth, back and forth.

The sublimity of a love. The way it soars, it thrashes, it tugs and rebuilds. Chanyeol has his expectations, his definitions. His threshold. He gets to decide what he calls love and what he doesn’t. He should. It should be within his power.

But as he tries to tell himself this is love, this comfort, this happiness, this closeness, is love. He doesn’t feel it. It’s subpar. It’s not quite there. It’s now anywhere. As much as Chanyeol tries to fit in In there, it doesn’t work. And it’s even more frustrating than having no power over something external, is having no power over the self.

His head spins. Again. Going faster and faster. He turns towards Baekhyun, who turns towards him, and they climb each other.

Baekhyun sighs. He has a scarf around his neck, the fabric soft. He pulls it around Chanyeol’s neck too, because his is bare, exposed to the cold.

 “I can barely believe you when you’re like this with me,” he whispers. “Look at this. Look where I am.”

He’s in Chanyeol’s lap. One of his hands is on his hips, the other on in his hold. “Because I wouldn’t hold the hand of someone I don’t love the way you hold mine.” His arms round his shoulders. “And I wouldn’t embrace someone I don’t love the way you embrace me.”

He hiccups, trembles. Chanyeol seeks the perimeter of his pants under his jacket, and re-tucks the edge of his shirt back into them at the back. “I wouldn’t be there for someone I don’t love the way you are here for me, the way you are treating this.”

His head pulls away. Not all the way. It remains cold cheek on cold cheek, burning cheek on burning cheek. “How can you be like this with me, and say you don’t love me? How?” His hand goes through Chanyeol’s hair. A laugh follows, ghastly. “But whether I believe it or not has no importance at last.”

Chanyeol noses into his chest. “I don’t believe you either,” he says. Maybe this was it. This was it all along. From the moment of the confession until now, Chanyeol doubted it. Doubts it.

“You don’t believe what?” Baekhyun asks, looking at him. Offended. Scandalized. And it makes Chanyeol believe it even _less_.

“What are you even liking? What are you even loving?”

“ _You_.” It was long, elaborate, but it’s short. It could be short.

“But I’m— I’m nothing.”

Not more and not less than that. Maybe in his youth, his twenties, when he was ready to take on the world, he had something. But like this, at this stage, at this age, with those scars, what is there left in Chanyeol to love. What does he even do. What worthiness does he have. What charms. “What do you even see in me? What is there to see in me?”

Baekhyun’s fingers curl around his jaw. He holds it, as though Chanyeol wouldn’t be able to hold it himself. “Do you think I have bullet points? I like you for this, this, and this?”

Chanyeol maybe needs bullet points. “No, but there must be some—”

“I like you,” Baekhyun says. “I just like you. So _much_.”

Chanyeol begins shaking his head. Baekhyun shakes his back. “I like everything about you. Everything. Did you think of that? That I have nothing to dislike? Do you know how rare that is?” He places them in stanzas, separated by another knead of his hand.

It doesn’t work like that. It shouldn’t work like that. It shouldn’t be based on the absence of dislikes. It should be based on the presence of likes. Not like this, not—

“To me, you’re perfect,” Baekhyun says. “I like you, so much, just the way you are.”

Chanyeol cannot be convinced of that. He can think of so many things that he dislikes at himself. How could he be perfect. No. No way.

“You don’t believe me,” Baekhyun says. His thumbs smooth over Chanyeol’s browbones, motion symmetrical.

“No,” Chanyeol confesses.

“I don’t believe you either.”

 

 

 

 

 “Come sleep with me,” Baekhyun asks tonight too, after the two pints of beer wear off, and sunrays begin pricking through the linden tree. “I won’t do anything to you.”

Chanyeol follows.

 

 

 

Junmyeon sends him a picture of himself, neon green gloves on, and the handle of the mop in one hand, a little smug smile on his face, and in the background, his apartment.

Chanyeol hasn’t seen it in a while. _Home_.

_Cleaned up for you, that will be 100k won_

 

 

 

 

What kind of pain is he to Baekhyun.

Is he like a burn, that blisters, pulsates. Annoys, is it like a numbness, an absence. Is it like a punch, dislodgement, swollenness. Is it like a tumour, a growth of poison, sucking into him, from him, depleting, a parasite.

How can he alleviate it when he’s the source of the pain itself.

 

 

 

 

Baekhyun reads less and less. Less and less. It’s odd. This attachment. This excrescence. With his default state of his being becoming gone like this. It pronounces this unbalance, this friability between them.

Baekhyun touches his face with his hand. The back of it. The knuckles. Two stripes of warmth drawing across Chanyeol’s cheek until it reaches his jawbone. Then there is nowhere to go.

Baekhyun smiles – these plastic ones that are made for the dead – and suspires, something small and cinereous, before the hand drops.

“Where are your books?”

“They’ll still be here when you won’t.”

And with this, he falls asleep.

 

 

 

 

He steps in to take something. The slithery walk, as to not even step, but levitate, even though it takes a lot to disturb Chanyeol. Chanyeol keeps typing, even though he’s noticed his presence.

He takes his headphones from Chanyeol’s desk. He forgot them here the last time, after he played an online game on Chanyeol’s laptop because it’s bigger.  

But he stops at the door. And stays there for a while, toes dipping into the small, fluffy rug. Chanyeol types five words.

“You don’t find me attractive?”  

From the moment he registers what he said, Chanyeol has no more work to do. He looks at Baekhyun.

“Ah, pretend I didn’t say anything,” he mumbles, getting out in a haste. “I didn’t say anything.”

Chanyeol gets up and follows him and catches him, twining his hand with his. He walks them into Baekhyun’s room, into his bed. In bed. This talk should be had in bed.

Baekhyun settles on the cushions against the headboard. His head doesn’t sink into them. He’s tense, stiff.  There is a furrow, and a dispersal of his features, kinks under the skin. Chanyeol smoothens them all out with a light touch to his forehead.

“You’re acting as though you intend to crush me,” Baekhyun whispers, a smidgen of playfulness in it.

“No,” Chanyeol says, grabbing a pillow – his own pillow, now they’re sleeping in Baekhyun’s bed – and fitting it underneath his neck. This won’t be a short conversation. “It’s more so you don’t crush yourself.” He pulls on Baekhyun’s pillow too, so his head falls comfortably in the middle of it. “You have more questions than this one, don’t you?”

Baekhyun bites his lip. As though he didn’t mean to be caught about this. He thought Chanyeol either wouldn’t know, or wouldn’t mention it.

“I was here before.” Maybe exactly like this, lying down on his side, Jongin in front of him as Chanyeol succumbed to the teeth of insecurity. “All of your doubts. Tell me.”

A tug of war develops in his eyes, the two sides looking to tear. To speak about it and perhaps let out sentiments that only knew enchainment. Or not speak, and hope they will simmer themselves down into demise.

One side wins, and Baekhyun’s fingers begin their dance around Chanyeol’s. “They’re kinda…stupid. Like me.” A smile begins, two folds on either sides of his mouth, before it gives up. “You’ll just have to reassure me. As if I’m a little baby.” Now it makes it to three folds, but doesn’t make it to a smile. “Or lie. I think you’ll just lie.”

“Would you even let me lie?” Chanyeol asks. “Can I even lie to you?”  He wouldn’t dare. It would be so insolent. So insulting. Baekhyun doesn’t deserve that.

That is met with no answer. Just acknowledged silently.

Now Baekhyun looks where to begin from. Maybe from the beginning. From the reason this was brought up at all.

“Am I not attractive to you?” he whispers. “Am I too short, and you like them tall and slender? Which is not me. My nose barely reaches your shoulder.”

Jongin. No. Chanyeol likes people of physiques that aren’t like Jongin’s.

“Did you even look at yourself?” Chanyeol said, because this one is just a little ludicrous. “If you didn’t, did you see how I look at you?” It’s truly the time to say it all. All the times he laid eyes on him and just felt a pull. ”I still remember the first time I saw you naked, I never really paid attention to that with anyone else I’ve been with. But you’re so hot. And so beautiful. And cute. You’re. More than attractive.”

“But to you. You can think I’m attractive without being attracted”— he recites, looking lost. Because he’s just saying something he’s read. He’s heard.

“To me. You’re very attractive.”

Baekhyun licks his lips, looks away. Pendulating between belief and disbelief, between assimilation and dismissal. Chanyeol cannot tell which one he picked when he returns with another question.

“The sex itself though? Is it bad? Was I not good to you?”

“Remember how I cried out for you.” When Chanyeol promised to moan his name, he did.

Baekhyun bites his lip, fighting to accept Chanyeol’s words. Silence falls, for another topic to come out.

 “Because I like being away? I don’t think I was that clear, but I don’t have to be here. I could be anywhere. Anywhere you like. I wondered if you leaving meant just that you’ve had enough of London, and you just want to go back home. Not to leave me, but to leave here. I could leave too. I’m not bolted into place here. Anywhere you like. If it’s that—"

“It’s not that,” Chanyeol says. If he couldn’t fall for him in London, he cannot fall for him in Seoul either. It has nothing to do with his home. “I don’t even miss it that much. Mostly because I had you. And I don’t dislike it here. This is why I even stayed for so long.”

Baekhyun gets closer. And closer. “Because I’m easy? I seem easy, don’t I?”

“How are you easy?”

“I don’t know, I just---with you. I didn’t want to wait out anything.” It could be about their initial meetings. His boldness. Then his acceptance when Chanyeol asked for a kiss that night.

“You’re not easy,” Chanyeol just says. “And even if you were, that wouldn’t mean anything.”

“My temperament? My personality? Am I too…loud? Too quiet? Too… _something_ , for you?”

“No.” Chanyeol looks at his room. One side with the new planner. Colour coded again. Chanyeol knows his schedule again, knows the differences from last year. Now, Tuesdays are the ugly ones instead of the Thursdays. On the other end, his bookcases, spines stacked both vertically and horizontally. He has so many little quirks, so many little thoughts, both wisdom and foolishness, both control and spontaneity, both calm and recklessness. “You’re…lovely. Balanced in a way. I think I’m jealous of you. Of the way you see your life, and the way you lead it.”

Putting Baekhyun into words isn’t easy. And Chanyeol isn’t the best with them. But he hopes that’s enough.

“Why did you sleep with me?” Baekhyun asks, circumventing the amplitude of Chanyeol’s words.

“Because you wanted sex. And I wanted sex.” Same reason as any two people ever having sex.

Baekhyun deflates, skin moulding to bones. “So it could’ve been with anyone else.”

 _Why did you?_ Chanyeol would ask. But he knows. The first two times it was because he wanted sex. The third was because he wanted sex, and he wanted Chanyeol a little too. The fourth and fifth were because he wanted Chanyeol.

And the sixth…was because he wanted himself.

Chanyeol cannot say no. Cannot deny that. Not wholly, when he knows he was in a state when he would’ve taken anyone truly, thrown at him. He had no ideal, no requirements. Not then, not now.

The space between grows bigger and bigger. Chanyeol counts breaths. Just one set, since they’re in sync. When Baekhyun hiccups, Chanyeol hiccups too, When Baekhyun swallows, Chanyeol swallows too. Except he’s not going though nearly as dissecting a tumult as Baekhyun is. Not even close.

“You don’t feel anything for me? Anything?”

And this is heavier. This drops, pushes Chanyeol into a maze, an everland of queries.

“Not even a small crush? You never crushed on me at all? Is it really _nothing_?”

Maybe not the first time, but the tenth time Baekhyun winked at him, his heart giggled. He can think of micro-instances, afterthoughts, accessories to their life together that for sure brought a bit of that youthful, wrecking build up of romance. The symptoms of a puppy love was there.

“I crushed on you,” Chanyeol says.

“And?” Baekhyun presses, eyes lighting up with gory hope. “There must be something left of that, no?”

“It went down,” Chanyeol says. He doesn’t know when the flutter stopped. When it became ordinary, lost into the homogeneity of their everyday life. “It should’ve grown into what it is for you. But it just perished.” One day, it just wasn’t there anymore. And Chanyeol doesn’t even know when. Doesn’t even know the beginning of it. As if it was all a dream.

“So you don’t feel anything for me now?”

That can’t be. “I do. But it’s not what you want.”

“What is it? What is it that that you feel for me?”

He climbs onto Chanyeol now, leg thrown over him. He’s frenzied, not in movements, not in his tone, but right into this very tameness of his gestures. He pleads for an answer, unblinking.  

For so long it didn’t come to him, what he felt, instead of didn’t, for it to suddenly catch clarity now.

“I wish you happiness.”

Baekhyun frowns, so obviously disappointed, only for the vines of it to clear, and for him to be attentive again, waiting for Chanyeol to say _more_. But Chanyeol doesn’t say more. Because there _isn’t_ more. 

“Is that…it? You wish me happiness? That’s it?”

He’s offended. It’s pure offense. Accusation and retaliation, a bit violent, falsely civil.

Chanyeol can’t offer more, but he can elaborate. “That’s not so small, you know,” he says, soft. To Baekhyun’s current stance, it would seem almost like defiance. But it’s not. Because if Baekhyun wants to punch him until there’s nothing left, Chanyeol would let him. “Maybe it sounds too general. Everybody wishes everybody is happy. But with you…”

“Do you know how gorgeous you are? Not only when you smile. Even when you cry.” Because Chanyeol remembers, that night, that night, how it was the ugliest a human could be, and he was still beautiful, still aglow, even when just a mummy of himself. “After I got to know you a little, I felt bad for being me. I don’t think this feeling that…I’m dragging you down. That I’m a nuisance. I’m with special needs. And then I’m boring too, ever went away. I really think you’re way, way too precious for me.”

His words stall, and then gush. He can’t make it even. He stutters, then he doesn’t. But through all of this fluctuation. Baekhyun’s eyes don’t falter from his.

“So I really wish you happiness, because it suits you so much.” Chanyeol wishes he found other men too. Chanyeol wants to tell him, _love someone else, there are people way better than me out there_. He would be so glad had Baekhyun found someone.

And Baekhyun, while appreciative, deeply so, still has those morsels of offense in him.

“I told you it’s not what you wanted me to feel.”

“It’s really not,” he says. “But I didn’t know this, and I’m glad to hear it.”

And then a silence. They breathe. And breathe. And breathe. Baekhyun is crumbling on top of him, the victim of a seism. Chanyeol nearly sees the smoke of it all. The falling.

Baekhyun puts a tentative hand on Chanyeol’s chest. Just a bit of grounding, anchor dropped in shallow waters. He swallows, licks his lips. “You still love him,” he says.

All the affirmations so far were still questions, awaiting confirmation or denial. But this one is resolute.

“I don’t know,” Chanyeol says. Jongin didn’t take the love with him on the plane. And even as he waited, and waited— “He gave me a year to fall out of love with him. At first, it was just him fighting it. He couldn’t just accept it. Then he saw it wasn’t working, and urged me to….detach myself.” He used this exact word, spoken into his soju glass, as he was a little ball of a human. “To pressure my feelings to unravel.”  

Chanyeol looks at Baekhyun’s neck. Not his face. He can’t look at him as he talks about Jongin. Which he _shouldn’t_. Chanyeol should’ve stopped talking after _I don’t know_ , but the story left there would be incomplete, and this talk would be futile if it doesn’t present sincerity in its entirety.

“But I couldn’t stop loving him. Even if it was a period that hurt both of us a lot.” It was awful, up until the very last day they spent together in London. It was awful. “And now, when he’s not mine anymore—” He hesitates. Baekhyun shouldn’t hear this. But Chanyeol maybe really deserves those punches. “There isn’t a day I don’t think about him.” In bits. Remembering. Wondering. All the time.

And – “I think about…getting back together. Starting over. A few years from now on, maybe. After he’s been with other people. After I...I don’t know. Whatever changed then that he—” he stops. It doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t know what he wants to say. “I know it won’t happen. It can’t happen. But that doesn’t mean I can stop thinking about it.”

Baekhyun’s other hand settles on his chest. Two anchors now, barely holding up to the current. “What about the day you stop thinking about him?” His fingers press slightly, perforating into Chanyeol. “Will there be some space for me too?”

Chanyeol can’t say no. But can’t say yes. It shouldn’t be answered at all.

“Don’t wait for that.”

“But I want to.”

“Don’t,” Chanyeol insists, “because I can’t promise you anything.”

Baekhyun shakes his head. “But there’s a _chance_ —”

“Don’t go for chances.”

“But—” and this time, it just dies on its own, the corpse on Baekhyun’s tongue.

The denouement. The ending. Is the sigh. It’s a short one, the spirit of a shallow breath, barely warm, barely meaningful. He twists his fingers over each other, engaged in a play of their own, in a playground of their own.

Baekhyun puts them down.

“Hug me?” he asks, eyes hyaline.

It doesn’t take more than a nudge for Baekhyun to fall right into him. _Hug me_. Chanyeol has to do the hugging. Not Baekhyun, as it happened so far. It was always Baekhyun who pressed harder, closer. Chanyeol felt like he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t leave any more of a mark on Baekhyun than he already has.

But he’s being asked to. And Chanyeol can do it. Hug him. Torso over torso, his forehead fitting into the crook of Chanyeol’s neck. He gathers his hands over Baekhyun’s waist, and moves them up and down the length of his spine, from his nape, to his hips, and to the sides too. So he feels it all.

Baekhyun sighs. A damp sigh, congested. He sighs once more, and it runs clear.

“I can’t hear your heart,” he says. “It really has no reaction to me.”

It’s the opposite, for Chanyeol. It slows down. So much. It’s pure comfort. No jitters, no oscillation, no thrill. The joy he takes in having this kind of closeness is closer to a coma.

“Mine is so loud. I think you can hear it.”

“I can hear it,” Chanyeol murmurs, digits now in his hair.

“Sorry,” Baekhyun says, hiding slightly more into him, the tip of his nose in the nook between his jaw and ear.

“No.”

He won’t take a sorry for this. Amongst the things one should apologize for, this is not one of them.

“What about thank you?” he says, tiny voice, for it’s into Chanyeol’s skin. No need to say it louder. “Because…thank you.” The brush of his lips under his jaw, where the skin is soft, silken, chaste – it’s intentional. A tickle, sodden with Baekhyun’s lovingness.

“What for?” he asks. If anything, he thinks that fits even less.

“You’re hugging me.”

“So it’s for the hug?”

“No. It’s because you’re hugging me even after you rejected me. You’re still with me. Even though this is my problem, not yours.”

Chanyeol didn’t think there’s any merit in that. He needs to do this. He has to.

“I was rejected before too – a few times in high school. I’ve rejected people before too. And that’s all I did. I wasn’t there when they had to deal with it. I didn’t do...anything for them. And they never did anything for me. No matter how close we were, we became strangers the moment the feelings came out. Pretty cruel strangers at that.”

Chanyeol tries brushing his hair behind his ear. It’s too short. But he doesn’t stop trying.

“Because I thought that was the only way this could go. It’s just so helpless. What else is there to be done other than sever the relationship so nothing more can develop.”

He nuzzles into Chanyeol, lightly, but not stiffly. “I like it better like this. A lot better. It hurts less.”

A laugh, spiritless. “When you told me that you’re leaving that evening, god I thought you’d be gone by the time I came back. I was so scared you’d just go poof. I couldn’t have handled you just going poof on me.”

“So you’re thankful for me staying.”

“Yes. And being kind to me. Even after I agreed to being a fool and after I pulled at you like this. I’ve been pretty pressuring, haven’t I— Don’t say no. I won’t buy it. _God_ , when I kissed you that night and you told me to stop,” a cry follows, frustrated, apologetic. “It was obvious from then that this wouldn’t end the way I wanted to, and yet I kept…pushing you. I really haven’t been the kindest to you.”

“I think you have.”

“Me buying you cupcakes on the regular doesn’t count.”

“Sure it does,” Chanyeol chirps.

“It doesn’t.”

“You’ve been the kindest. You pulling at me like this is indeed the kindest thing you did for me. You just want me to love you.”

He catches his eyes, the first time of him pulling out of the nook, where he was sheltered.

“I want to love you too. I’d really love to love you. I just…don’t know…don’t know how make it happen. You tried so hard though. It truly is the kindest thing.”

“I’d love it if you loved me,” he says, a slanted grin hesitating on his lips.

“I’d love to love you too.”

Then it turns bitter. And sour. Mutual regret, dragged into repugnance between them. Because neither of them have what they want.

Baekhyun melts back into his place – it got cold in his absence. Chanyeol doesn’t like it. He fills it right back with warmth.

“And I’m the fool, no? I’d rather have you like this. So what if you don’t like me.”

“Does this do you good? Me being like this?” It’s about the hug. The fact they’re twined until they’re one, whilst Baekhyun harbours unreturned feelings. It shouldn’t be that good.

“I’ll have the time to stop loving you after you leave. For now, I’m just really really happy you’re here with me.”

Stop loving him. It’s saddening. But sweetly saddening. Honeyed nostalgia.

“I like this. The way we are now. Just this. It makes me happy. You being here. Being around. I like it. And you give some damn good hugs too.”

“Are you going to purr on me?”

“Sure I will,” he says. And he gets on with it. The imitation is terrible, for it’s not an easy sound to mimic. It sounds like a broken engine combined with a grunt, but airier. Chanyeol titters.

 

 

 

Baekhyun begins cooking on his own. When Chanyeol takes the ingredients out, he just hips him away, and tries it himself.

Chanyeol smiles until he sees Baekhyun struggling.

“You know I can do it. Why are you trying so hard?”  Chanyeol asks, seeing him rush to put together the third dinner in a row, vegetables mutilated on the chopping board, and one too many cuts on his fingers.

“I got used to eating like this. I can’t go back to cold foods and semi prep and eating out all the time.” He cuts through a bell pepper, starting in the middle and ending askew. “It’s one thing less to miss.”

 

 

 

Baekhyun gets into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

Chanyeol is just starting to shave. Post shower. Morning. Baekhyun prefers doing it at night, so his skin calms before he puts on his tinted sunscreen.

After he rinses his mouth of toothpaste and puts his toothbrush away, he stops. “Can I..” another _can I_. Chanyeol already says yes. “Do that for you?”

“I’ve seen you work with a knife before,” Chanyeol says, no bite, as he lathers shaving cream on his face.

“Have you ever seen me with a cut though?”

No. Never. While Chanyeol still gives himself one from time to time.

He just huffs, and passes the razor to Baekhyun. “You’re in good hands,” he says. He doesn’t need the other palm there, but it stays, on his neck, his thumb and forefinger united to guide him from his jaw. He makes the expressions he wishes Chanyeol would make, pulling his upper lip down, bulging his cheek, baring his chin, turning his head. The sound of scaping. The scent of the shaving foam – _mountain rush_ , the same as Baekhyun’s. The tapping of the razor in the sink filled with a bit of water. Adding a bit more shaving cream in the vicinity of his sideburns. Under his chin, towards his neck.

Baekhyun manoeuvres him gently. He’s focused, not making a mistake. Chanyeol considered crying out, yelping, randomly, to scare him. But why. When Baekhyun is tending to him so heartily.

He drops the razor in the sink. He’s done. But now his empty hand just joins the other one, cupping his face.

And he stares. It’s the very same, sad, so sad, bitter, mouldy gaze that he keeps giving him. The one that Chanyeol wishes to erase so bad, but he just doesn’t know how.

“Did you have to be so gorgeous too?” he asks quietly. Almost an accusation. But it’s only frustration. His thumbs brush by Chanyeol’s cheeks. He’s pulling Chanyeol towards himself, just lightly, and Chanyeol follows.

“My standards are ruined,” he continues, eyes roaming all over his face. He lingers on low, on his lips. “Who even tops you…”

Chanyeol is at loss for words. He cannot contradict it – how disrespectful would that be. To counter whatever Baekhyun sees in him. It’s not his place.

Baekhyun’s thumbs brush once more over his cheeks. Maybe he’s checking for leftover stubble. There isn’t any. He’s done an impeccable job.

“My nose has a bump on it.”

Baekhyun snorts immediately. “Shut up before I kiss it.” And with this he steps back, as if burned, burned by himself, and turns towards the sink. He rinses the razor, taps it a few times on the porcelain before he inspects it. He wipes it on a towel, along the blade a few times, before he puts it back into the holder.

Then he steps out of the bathroom without another glance towards Chanyeol.

Chanyeol doesn’t get up for a while. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. But he waits. And when nothing happens, he rinses his face, pats it dry, and steps out, only to find the door of Baekhyun’s room already closed.

 

 

 

“Is there something wrong? Were the students nasty? The traffic?” Chanyeol asks, finding Baekhyun sitting by himself in the balcony, obviously shivering.

His expression museful as his gaze swims into the tea in his cup. It does a few leaps before he blinks, and looks up.

“I’m in love with someone who doesn’t love me back,” he says.

Chanyeol remembers instantly. Deva-vu. It’s strong. And it’s _bitter_.

“I heard that’s awful,” Chanyeol completes.

Baekhyun dunks his answer into his tea. “Awful doesn’t even begin to describe it.”

 

 

 

Baekhyun isn’t doing so many things. And he is doing so many things.

“At this point, you should make a list,” Chanyeol says.

“I’m making one,” he throws the sock ball into the hamper. “I’ll need so many things to fill your place.”

 

 

 

Chanyeol leaves him with a full fridge. Everything he likes. In little containers. Big. And in the freezer too. To miss him a little less. Or a little more. But at least it will be less work.

Baekhyun checks his homework.

“You know, you stopped needing these a long time ago?”

“Then why didn’t you stop?”

“You didn’t ask to. And I got used to it. And you got used to it.”

Looking back on it, on everything, Chanyeol says. “I learned a lot.”

“Me too.”

 

 

 

 

Baekhyun worked today. Till late. But he left late too. Chanyeol cooked dinner for them. Dakkalbi with cheese. A lot of cheese on top. Baekhyun claps his hands when he sees it, salutes him, makes squelchy noises with his mouth. He’s always so eager to be fed. And some greenery to the side, just butter lettuce, to wrap some of them. Baekhyun washed it, but didn’t drain it that well. Their hands are wet, nearly wrinkly at the tips.

Chanyeol stacks the bowls of rice. One plate, two bowls, the pan, empty in front of them. The pan will have to soak, dark bits stuck to it.

Baekhyun has dry sauce at the corner of his lips. He has his phone in hand. “Is four okay?” he asks. His thumb skids across the screen. Chanyeol pulls his hair behind his ear. “The traffic might be really bad.”

So he recalls. Neither of them forgot for a second, perhaps, but it remained so unspoken, barely existent, that it might’ve been an apparition.

But it’s real.

“Are you…coming?” Chanyeol asks. He thought he wouldn’t. He already thought of how to leave without making noise, waking him up.

“Of course,” Baekhyun says. “It’s a bit more time spent with you.” Insouciance, not even forced, but natural, because it’s a given. _Given_ that he would come.

Chanyeol packed his suitcase. It’s in Baekhyun’s field of vision. It’s all he did today, beside dinner. Beside just doing nothing. It took hours and hours, as he added things slowly.

“I think four is good,” Chanyeol says. His mouth is burning. It was too spicy. Chanyeol didn’t say anything. Baekhyun didn’t say anything. Neither asked for water.

“That’s in almost seven hours.” He puts the phone down, screen black. He doesn’t meet Chanyeol’s eyes.

He begins stacking up the dishes. Lettuce plate in the pan, the two bowls on top. Chanyeol takes them to the sink. He begins washing them before Baekhyun reaches the sink. Baekhyun sighs, but lets him.

“Tea?” he asks. Which he never did. Tea was always made for Chanyeol too. And if Chanyeol didn’t want it, it was double tea for Baekhyun. There’s never too much tea.

“Ceylon,” Chanyeol replies, fighting with the textured film on the inside of the rice bowls.

“I can’t believe that out of all my darlings you like that one the best,” Baekhyun mutters, judgment low, as he turns on the kettle. Chanyeol looks over. So he will have Ceylon too.

“There’s nothing wrong with Ceylon,” Chanyeol defends, drying his hands. The pan is truly a lost cause for now. Chanyeol filled it with soapy water until it overflowed.

Baekhyun spoons the loose leaf into the infusers – the butterfly and the owl, both of which hook to the rim of the cup. He’s using the brass measurer. In Chanyeol’s – the owl – he puts a bit more leaf. “No. Just nothing special about it either,” he says, voice crinkled, sassy, as to insult Chanyeol’s preference by posing it as his own distaste.

He pours the water, from close, them from afar, a little show-off. Places the silicone lids on them, grabs, walks away.

They drink it in front of the TV. A movie ends, and it’s just in time for the late-night news. Car crashes, two, the price of petrol is rising, _but when isn’t it_ , whispers Baekhyun, the roof of a countryside hospital caught fire, a video of a dog seeming to talk back at its owner going viral, and a short medley of the extensiveness of the queen’s hat collection. Lastly the weather is warmer than normal for this period, the rains as usual.

Another movie starts. Baekhyun puts his empty cup down and gets up to walk towards the bathroom. Tooth brushing time. Chanyeol follows him, the door is open, he waits leaning on it. Baekhyun finishes up, leaves the toothpaste tube uncapped for Chanyeol.

They walk together towards the bed. Climb in, settle, same place, same position.

They lie in bed. Facing each other, the cover pulled up to their shoulder. Since that night, when it all went down, they rotated the sheets three times, and now it’s back to the dark blue one. Baekhyun likes this one the best. Looks the best on it. He was giddy. Out of all of them, he is most excited to sleep on these.

But now he’s just close. He’s close. He could be closer. But he won’t drag himself.

Chanyeol looks into his eyes. At the end of them, he would find himself, if only he would search. But he doesn’t. Their droopiness is accentuated, the tails sagging. His whole face is sagging. Chanyeol hates himself.

The sheets rustle, and then Baekhyun’s fingers are touching his face. He doesn’t like it, he doesn’t dislike it, but the feeling it brings him is immense, claws at him.

Baekhyun touches higher up, to his forehead, where he brushes up his hair, throwing it over his temple. It’s so long that it stays.

The hand goes back down, and lower, until it’s on his jaw, his neck, his shoulder.

“I love you,” he says. Which he only did once before, like this. When he was drunk, when insobriety lent him the courage, but not the veracity – that was always there.

Chanyeol knows. Chanyeol never forgot. Chanyeol will never forget.

His eyes close, and he shifts, hand on him tightening, rubbing in place, plumose, airy, as though it daren’t press harder, and he kisses Chanyeol’s forehead. A somnific, teeny peck, meaning way more than the sum of its materials. Heavier than anything. The hand rests just under his jaw, and holds, as the kiss holds. Baekhyun gasps, swallows, his lips tremulous, his hold gentle, but so tensed, so fraught.

He pulls away. It all releases in a blink, not a gradient, not a drag. Chanyeol doesn’t get to see his eyes again. He turns, his back to Chanyeol.

“Good night.”

 

 

 

 

They don’t sleep. They don’t move. Chanyeol’s eyes are closed. Burning as if open, as if they never blinked, never saw rest. He’s not agitated, not thinking of anything. Calm. Black. A carcass for slumber to easily sneak into.

But it just doesn’t happen.

He turns around.

Baekhyun’s eyes are wide open.

They smile. Because they aren’t sleeping. It’s three in the morning, and they aren’t sleeping. It’s three in the morning on the day Chanyeol leaves, and they’re wide awake, and smiling.

They rise. Lean against the headboard, awake and silent. The kind of overloud silence past midnight, that eats into the air, and broadens it with echoes, dilates with stillness.

Chanyeol opens his mouth. Maybe to say something. He has things to say, but no words to put them into. His mouth is grimy, acrid, rotten. Baekhyun plays with his phone, twirls it between his fingers. Outside, a drunken group settles under their window, makes some noise, a shout and laughter, followed by slurred singing. It fades out. The phone in Baekhyun’s hand lights up again. Three seventeen.

They wait. The phone should ring at four. Less than an hour from now.

He hears Baekhyun licking his lips, it is a mute sound to an ear unused to it. He does it again. It’s out of nervousness. He knows by the frequency.

Chanyeol gets to the edge of the bed. Sits. The fuzzy slippers. Fuzzy bear slippers.

He puts them on and gets up to pack the last of the things. His phone charger after he unplugs it. He puts it in the front pocket, for he will surely need it soon. His vitamins, which he takes one of before packing them. The London map. He doesn’t need it. He puts it away, to throw away once he gets the chance. He came with toiletries, but he doesn’t take any – they’re not his anymore. He puts on the last new pair of socks. He washes his face, brushes his teeth. Puts on a bit of sunscreen.

Baekhyun is out of bed, leaning against the wall, the duvet around his shoulders, held snug against his body. It’s cool. Chanyeol didn’t notice.

He looks back at the valise. There’s a lot of room left in it now. There wasn’t when he came. He doesn’t know what he’s lost from it, why it is like this.

He makes to zip it up when Baekhyun croaks, “Wait,” and disappears into his room.

He comes back with something in his hands. Chanyeol only sees what it is when Baekhyun kneels to put them in.

The pyjamas. The same set from one of those market vendors. Cotton. Gaudy pattern. Yellow. Soft yellow set. Just like the one Chanyeol has been wearing till it loosened on him too.

“You like these,” he says. “I’d give you mine, but they already look awful.” He pats them down. Hands smoothing over the fabric. And again, caressing the mound. The duvet is still around him, but falling off his shoulders little by little. At last, it’s a pile around his crouched figure. “You don’t have to wear them. You could just give them to someone else. Or throw them away.” He bites his lip. It sounds like it’s not him, like a stand in, a proxy. Years added to it.

“I’ll wear them,” Chanyeol vows.

Baekhyun nods, without looking at him. He pats the set again, and gets up. He re-enters his room.

He stays in front of his bookshelf for a while. He stays. All those spines, pressed together, he knows the story within each. At last, he picks two, and comes back to the suitcase. “These are new,” he says, arranging them right along the far wall of the valise. They fit perfectly. “You won’t find any of my notes in them.”

“I like your notes.”

Baekhyun peers at him for a second. “But you don’t like me.”

It’s the spite, and the bitterness, as he realizes what he said. It stings in a way, when it shouldn’t. But he doesn’t want to correct him. There is nothing to correct.

“I like your notes,” Chanyeol just repeats. Because he likes his notes. They enhance perspectives, insight, cute, the doodles, the ad libs.

Baekhyun bites his lip, again, same place. Digging a hole.

The phone goes off just then. It’s four. The kind of alarm that progresses into loudness, a meadow and birds, a flute wound around it. Chanyeol goes after it, and silences it before it snoozes automatically.

He passes straight into the kitchen. He pours the coffee from the press. Reheats it in the microwave. He made extra for now. He wanted to pour it for both of them, but he pours it all just into one. It smells stale, but like wakefulness. The cup is not chipped, but it’s loved. Craquelure of the glaze, and the deep amber within the cracks.

The suitcase is zipped. The duvet is folded, draped neatly over the arm of the couch. Baekhyun is standing in front of it, looking around, as if to find himself a place. He’s cowering, from the cold perhaps.

Chanyeol sits. Baekhyun appraises him, gaze low, even if high, it’s inattentive. He chooses to sit between Chanyeol’s legs, making space for himself via a short caress to Chanyeol’s thigh. Chanyeol shelters him, just so he won’t see him cold anymore.

He puts the mug in Baekhyun’s hands. It doesn’t have sugar in it. It’s over-brewed with too few grounds. But it’s hot, and Baekhyun’s hands wrap around it, rub, fingertips only on the margin. It’s dark outside. The lamp is weak, struggling to illuminate. The vapours rise from the cup, ghostly, white little fairies, then flying away. The clock ticks - that one cheap clock from the kitchen that Chanyeol bought so he could time his cooking. He never heard its ticks before.

Chanyeol puts his chin on Baekhyun’s shoulder. Baekhyun sips the coffee. It’s loud. An overzealous slurp, because it’s too hot. He takes just one thin little sip, before he puts it back on Chanyeol’s thigh.

Chanyeol whines, and Baekhyun snorts, itty bitty, and puts the cup to Chanyeol’s lips too. This is hard. Making someone else drink. Baekhyun doesn’t angle the cup enough, and Chanyeol can’t reach, but if he angles it too much, he will pour hot coffee all over himself. It smells pleasant. So pleasant. And Baekhyun tries and tries until Chanyeol gets his one too big sip, the tip of his nose taking a little bird bath in the coffee. Chanyeol yelps, trying not to jostle Baekhyun, and Baekhyun is already there, sleeve pulled over his palm, dabbing at Chanyeol’s nose. “I’ll do better next time.”

And he really does that. The clock ticks, and they drink coffee from that one cup. One sip Baekhyun, one sip Chanyeol. After each of Chanyeol’s’ sips, Baekhyun turns the cup, so his lips press where Chanyeol’s did. Always. Always. Always.

Then the coffee is done, going slower halfway. It’s getting cooler and cooler. Baekhyun’s head is on his chest, a leg lifted over Chanyeol’s. The clock is ticking. Baekhyun taps the phone again to check the time. It’s almost five.

When the coffee is gone, and Baekhyun puts the cup down with a clank, it’s a quarter to six.

Baekhyun turns, and peers at him. It’s far from sunrise, the lamp isn’t any stronger, but his gaze is pellucid, legible. “Are you really leaving?”

Chanyeol cannot say yes. He cannot reply to this. It’s better, if this exists as little as possible.

But he nods. He can only nod.

Baekhyun is silent. His eyes tense, a few creases coming, dissolving, his mouth presses too. His eyes are shiny. Chanyeol hates all of this.

“So this really isn’t a book,” he says, soft, immaterial. “If it were a book, you would’ve said no. Because books don’t end like this.”

He looks down, swallows, his hand digs into Chanyeol’s thigh, where the cup was.

“Let’s go.”

Chanyeol changes. His own clothes, brought from Seoul. Trousers bought by Jongin, shirt bought by Chanyeol, jacket bought by them both at a fair.

What he slept in is also bought from Seoul. His own set, sweats and a tee, now threadbare and stained.

He pulls the zipper of the valise, just enough to stuff them in.  

“Leave those,” Baekhyun says, a small, breathy burst. Chanyeol looks towards him as he’s buttoning his shirt. Baekhyun’s hands are folded together, looking to maul. Another lip bite. “Maybe you’ll need them again.” Another lip bite, a shake of his head, his eyes are agitated, looking everywhere. “Or the new flatmate will be tall too and—”

Chanyeol doesn’t need to hear more. He takes the bit that got into the suitcase out. And now he doesn’t know where to put them. His room is not his room anymore. He looks towards Baekhyun.

Baekhyun takes them from him, then he pads into his room. He puts them on the edge of the bed, where his current house clothes are laid out.

He will put them on. He will wear Chanyeol’s clothes after he’s gone. For three days because that’s for how long Baekhyun uses the same set.

Chanyeol’s heart breaks just a little more, turning into a fine, fine dust, because only the ruins of it are left, the pieces infinitesimal.  

He zips the suitcase all the way. It’s the first time, ever since he stepped here. He last zipped it before leaving the hotel room and moving in. Almost seven months ago.

He drags it towards the hallway. His jacket is on his arm. Baekhyun is already putting his on. In his pocket, his key. With a very fitting double-decker bus keychain. He bought it when he bought the fridge magnets for his parents too. He wants to take it with him, put it on the key of his apartment in Seoul. He fiddles with the ring, before Baekhyun takes it from him and frees it. He puts it in Chanyeol’s palm, the set of keys hooked onto the hanger. For the next person to take.

One last look around. His home. From the hallway, not all of it is visible. The ajar door of his bedroom, and Baekhyun’s, wide open, bed made with the same sheets as three weeks ago. The empty coffee mug. Chanyeol doesn’t remember how it was when he first entered. What change he’s left. Cookware. It’s just Baekhyun’s home. It’s always been. Chanyeol was but a touch to it.

Baekhyun is already opening the door. Chanyeol leaves the slippers. For the next person. Next to Baekhyun’s. The rabbits and the bears. He tells them goodbye too, in his mind.

Chanyeol drags the valise out. Baekhyun locks the door, and pockets the key – the one with the little corgi figurine. Chanyeol says his adieus to it too.

“Let me drive,” he asks as he sees the car. He wanted to, again. He hadn’t ever since the road trip.

It’s eerie. At this hour. Chanyeol’s never seen these streets at this time. At joints overly busy, in crannies, secluded. They’re familiar for a while – Chanyeol has seen quite a lot of London during his stay. He knows the corner. The scent of the place right next to the restaurant, the barber shop where Baekhyun goes on occasion. The nearby park, a few fir trees, a few swings, a few fountains.

“Stop here. I think they’re open.”

So Baekhyun buys him French toast. To-go French toast. Just with powdered sugar, packaged in wax paper, a little oily, and sweet. When they didn’t make it at home – bread rarely went stale on them – they got it from here.

“I didn’t know they’d be open at this hour. Granted, Alice was mostly sleeping.”

“You’re hungry.”

“This is for you.”

“Why is it for me?”

“Because you like it. And you’ll have to wait at the airport for two hours. And you’ll be hungry and the airport food kinda sucks.”

And Chanyeol. Is sorry. Again. And again. And again. Because he doesn’t love him. Because. As careful, as kind, as adoring as he is. Chanyeol doesn’t love him.

Leaving is a process too. Chanyeol has been leaving ever since he told him. It’s been three weeks. And the moments passed so fast. But this passes so slow. He didn’t think of that. The suffering this would being. Buildings bending backwards, roads sinking, the sun crumbling, dawn being another wave of blackness instead of illumination. The scenery is unfamiliar. Things he’d never seen.

They reach the airport too soon. The traffic is indeed bad, but it loosens here and there.  Baekhyun gives him directions, half from memory, half from the map on his phone.

Chanyeol parks, takes his suitcase out of the trunk, locks the door, and gives Baekhyun the key. Another key. They enter the airport.

He’s been here last to see Jongin off. He passes right by that spot. By that spot they last hugged as lovers. It was somewhere near the entrance. There is still a while to walk.

Chanyeol feels a little tug, accidental, an illusion, on the handle of the suitcase, before another follows, harder, and the handle of it is transferred into Baekhyun’s hold.

Then Baekhyun winds his hand around his now freed-hand, hesitant, shuddering, as if its presence shouldn’t be known. But it settles, fingers curling, holding tight. Aside him, Baekhyun breathes out.

They walk until they find the panel displaying departures. Chanyeol’s ticket, passport, and ID are in his pocket. They arrived in time, but at the upper limit. He should go check in his bag first.

So this is it. He turns towards Baekhyun, He raises their joined hands, and smooths his thumb over the back of Baekhyun’s. It feels like it needs it, because it’s trembling. Chanyeol’s or Baekhyun’s. Or both.

Chanyeol looks at his face. It’s blurry almost. As the very first time he saw him in that club. As though it’s dark, and Chanyeol cannot stand from intoxication. The pallor of his skin is accentuated, features greyed, lips bled out of colour, and eyes of a black that knows no light. The nuances of woe. His own face must look the same.

Baekhyun squeezes his hand.

Chanyeol raises the other one, and cups his face, his cheek. It shouldn’t be so thin, so cold.

Baekhyun leans into it, automatic, immediate, giving himself wholly into it. Heart and body, all in Chanyeol’s palm. The incision of dimples into his cheeks, the revival of tones, just from that alone. When Chanyeol sweeps his finger across the skin, Baekhyun’s eyes fall shut, and he sinks more into it, and Chanyeol is truly holding all of him right now.

And Chanyeol.

Chanyeol now cries.

Chanyeol felt like crying for a while. But it also didn’t feel he was allowed. Like he had the right to. Like he was the hurt one. Not when Baekhyun is the bereft one, the one left behind.

But it truly hurt him too. What he’s losing. What he’s causing. Only because something is not quite whole in him. Not quite repaired, not quite adapted. When he can’t do anything about it. And it’s this helplessness, this self-condemnation, and this regret. This huge, consuming regret, for the love he cannot accept, cannot return. For the pain of his friend. For the pain of the person he holds, at the moment, dearest, but not dear enough, and not the kind of dearness that’s wanted of him.

Because it’s close, it’s right there, yet it’s not enough.

Because he would like to stay, would love to stay, and be just like this, but it’s not right to prolong themselves into this malady.

It’s a steam, a mist in his eyes, as he collapses bit by bit. His hand drops from Baekhyun’s face, lands on his shoulders, and he pulls him in.

He could’ve cried at home. In bed, on the couch, in the balcony – he will miss the balcony. Away from the noise here, the counter of the little coffee shop, the entrance, the scrape of suitcase wheels. He could’ve done this in private. And sooner. He could’ve broken down sooner, because it’s not like it didn’t torment him from the start, from that day at the restaurant, from the _I really really like you_. Or from even before that.

And he cries, just like this, Baekhyun stuck to the wall, his form small, and squeezing him, muffling him, so he cannot ask anything. Because he will miss him. He will miss everything about this. Even the way he clung, because Baekhyun came in exactly to promise what Jongin took away from him, he was what he needed, exactly, and he couldn’t be the same for Baekhyun. Because it’s unfair. Because as a victim of such unfairness, he shouldn’t have caused the same thing.

And because he’ll miss him. He will miss Baekhyun. The many things to miss. The fact that he built a whole, mini life away from home with him. And he will never meet anyone like this again. He will never get affection like this again.

“Why am I leaving,” he says, breathless. “Why.” A whiff of bergamot. Of Baekhyun. “ _Why_.” Because now he almost doesn’t want to leave. Neither prospect is better. Leave where. Do what. Who is waiting for him. What is waiting for him. Not a Baekhyun who is small, and reaching towards him too, just to hold his face, keep it between his palms, and look him straight in the eye. Not him. He won’t be waiting for Chanyeol in Seoul.

“Because you don’t love me. And if you don’t love me, you have no reason to stay.”

“Baekhyun.” And that hurts the most. Because he is right too. They both are, even when all of this is wrong. Even when none of this should’ve happened. It went wrong from the moment Chanyeol kissed his cheek. Or the moment he met him. The moment they first bumped bicycles into one another, that summer when they were eleven. It shouldn’t have been this way.

“I’m supposed to do the crying,” Baekhyun whispers. He’s small, compacted by Chanyeol’s weight, his sorrow. The tears scorch his cheeks, leaves it in shards. “I can’t stand seeing you like this.”

Chanyeol just cries harder, as he sees how strongly Baekhyun is holding himself. His eyes are shiny, full, but not more. Holding up. Because _for a great love, you only cry once._

He’s proud of Baekhyun, and he feels bad for him, because Baekhyun can’t even break down properly when he wants for what it does to Chanyeol. Couldn’t even accuse him properly. They should’ve fought. Thrown insults, fists, plates.

Baekhyun is tugging at him, is doing something, gutting him. Chanyeol cannot stop thinking about the life he’s losing. The life he could’ve had. And how that hurts. The loss.

What’s leaving. Leaving doesn’t exist anymore. In this world, in this day, in this age. Leaving is obsolete. Leaving is a fantasy.

Baekhyun is grabbing his face again, stilling him. Their eyes meet. In his hand he has something folded. A piece of paper. Chanyeol doesn’t compute it until Baekhyun lowers it.

“It’s not a year from now, it’s just eleven months,” he says, as he’s feeling up Chanyeol’s jacket. “It’s the latest ticket they’d give me now.”

He reaches into Chanyeol’s pocket, swift, grabbing his phone. He swiping to the camera app. He plasters the ticket to Chanyeol’s chest, stretched out, and takes a shot of it.

He puts the phone back in Chanyeol’s pocket, the ticket back in his own. He stares at Chanyeol. “Now you know when I’m coming back, what day and what hour.” He swallows. Chanyeol does too. There is no way for it to pass, the whole system shut off. Baekhyun’s lips are timorous. “Come…come pick me up if you want to see me again.” Another swallow. “But if you still can’t— don’t,” the stutter, the choke. “Don’t come.” He blinks. The tears are there, unspilled. “ _Please_ don’t come if you still can’t love me.”

It’s hope. It makes him happy. Somehow. This is not truly the end. Chanyeol might be given another chance. After disappointing him, hurting him like this, this is only stretching. And yet, right now, he wishes to see Chanyeol again.

“I’ll come,” Chanyeol says. The strength of his sureness makes him spit it out. In a while, he can. He will. He might be coming back himself before that even gets to happen.

Baekhyun immediately shakes his head, “Don’t make me any promises now,” he says, stern. “Don’t make me believe anything now.”

Chanyeol takes a hold of his hand. He encases it in his own. Delicately. “I want to believe I will.”

Baekhyun’s eyes glaze anew. It’s thick, dense, barely held in, pooling on the waterline, but as he blinks, they still don’t spill. “If you don’t, it’s okay.”

Hope for him too is a poisonous thing. Because here they’re having their farewell amidst thinking of a reunion. Of starting this over. Of doing it right. As if they’re impatient for it.

But if it could happen now, Chanyeol wouldn’t be at the airport.

“What should I do for you?” Chanyeol asks. It’s too late for this. To only ask him now. He should’ve asked a long time ago. “What can I do now?”

Baekhyun wipes at Chanyeol’s cheeks. “Talk to me,” he breathes. It was right there, on his tongue. “I know you don’t talk to him anymore but I’m not…I’m not your ex. So maybe you can talk to me. If you want to. If you’d like to. Please talk to me.”

It doesn’t have to be full silence between them. It doesn’t. Chanyeol cannot imagine not talking to Baekhyun now. And he’s right. He’s not his ex. He’s something else.

“About anything. I’ll reply. Any time,” Baekhyun continues. It’s so ardent, and again, hope, hope, bigger than ever, blinder than ever.

“Okay,” Chanyeol says, and dips to kiss him on the cheek, overwhelmed. Baekhyun freezes and Chanyeol thinks he shouldn’t have, he shouldn’t have, he shouldn’t have, when it could affect Baekhyun more, but then it progresses into him melting right as Chanyeol panics.

He pulls away. “I’ll talk to you.”

Baekhyun jumps onto him, and kisses his cheek too, arms around him, another sigh into it. Like when just a few hours ago, he told Chanyeol he loves him. It’s the same kiss, the very same kiss meaning the very same thing. _I love you_. He ends it, retracts, slowly, and then does it on the other one, spontaneous and quick. Another _I love you_.

“So the other cheek doesn’t get mad,” he says, as he lowers himself from his tip toes.

And then he smiles, ever so slightly, and in this mess, in this _whole_ mess, it’s comical. It’s the most amusing thing, the strength in Baekhyun and how beautiful Chanyeol finds it, finds him, pushing through his sadness like this.

Chanyeol follows with a short peck to his other cheek too. “So the other doesn’t get mad,” he parrots.

“Can’t be leaving each other with upset cheeks,” Baekhyun nods.

Then there is nothing more to say. No cheeks left un-kissed. The world moves around them.

“You have to check in.”

He was already late. “Right.”

Baekhyun detaches from him. It’s shocking, as if he was a part of his own body, and Chanyeol staggers for a few moments.

Then it only lasts as long as their arms, stretching and stretching, until they can go no farther. But Baekhyun is still walking, going away, and naturally, no halting, no yanking, no holding, their connection dissolves, fingers slipping away from each other, and their arms fall back to their sides. Baekhyun turns around, back facing Chanyeol, and walks.

Chanyeol loses him in the crowd immediately. It’s that busy. He’s gone. If Chanyeol runs now, he could find him. He could catch him. He could.

His feet twitch, one of them sliding forward. He could.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't take the summary as more than a suggestion, because it really is just that. Feel free to choose your own ending. I personally think he will not go to the airport :P
> 
> OKAY MAYBE HE TOTALLY DID GO I WANT A HAPPY ENDING TOO, IM WEAK TOO, OKAY
> 
> Do let me know what you think of this. I experimented a little with the style, and within the approached topics themselves, and I'm very curious of your opinion on this ^^


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